Domus Mauri
by cherry-magpie-x
Summary: Sent for an eighth-year with people he'd rather avoid, Harry is hardly willing to face up to what the coming year might bring him. Surprisingly, Draco feels the same; But all is not well in that house on the moors, and this could be make or break.  HP/DM
1. Chapter 1

It was, Harry mused, rather disconcerting to begin your first day as a Hogwarts eighth-year in the back of a beat up white mini-bus.

Especially so, he thought on, when you were sharing it with three Slytherins, a Hufflepuff, four other Gryffindors and a rather horrified-looking Ravenclaw. Gone was the magic of the Hogwarts Express, shining red and belching steam – here they were, packed like sardines into a decidedly _used_ smelling vehicle, forced to listen to Pansy Parkinson whining about the cold – it was _September, _Merlin help them - and the lack of refreshments, bar a carton of warm pumpkin juice and a treacle tart.

"Now now, Pansy," their driver said - a squib named Nancy, perfect for dealing with this Muggle side of things - trying to sound bright as she slowed the van and tossed a glance over her shoulder. She was rewarded with a pointed stare and an under-the-breath mutter about her blood status, which resulted in the brakes being slammed on so hard Hermione's head knocked into the back of Harry's. Harry doubted he would have minded so much, because it was always good to see a Slytherin taken down a peg, but this was the fourth time this had happened and he was beginning to fear for the damage being done to his skull.

"Sorry, Harry," Hermione mumbled, sounding pained as she rubbed at her brow. He smiled at her, sitting next to a sleeping Ron – at least _some_ people could forget their worries.

"Pansy," Nancy had sucked in a deep breath and seemed to be preparing for another harsh reprimand. "We have discussed this. This year is all about fresh starts, new beginnings. Getting your results and moving on from all of the horror you've all been through-"

_Yeah, right,_ Harry thought to himself. _Horror like what? Offering up the person willing to die to save her skin?_

"Nancy, all respect given-" Parkinson interrupted, but her seating partner raised his white-blond head from where it had been resting against the window and fixed her with a look.

"For _God's_ sake, Pans, you're even driving me mad. Listen to what the lady has to say before I hex you."

"Well, thank you, Draco," Nancy said with a weak smile. "But I have to remind you, magic in the van is forbidden, and your disputes will have to be settled without its use."

"Jealous, are we?" Parkinson sneered, turning up her indelicate pug nose.

"Parkinson, shut the fuck up before we decide you're walkin' wherever we're goin'," Seamus said from Harry's left. Tensions had been running high all morning, and anger was rolling off of the Irishman in waves. Pansy carefully, quietly – and, Harry observed, wisely – shut her trap long enough for Nancy to continue.

"Again, thank you, Seamus, but perhaps some better vocabulary... Well. As I was saying, Pansy, this is a chance to move on. This is _not_ a time for you to revert back to the prejudices that so many have fought to eradicate from our society. You are here to complete your education, so I suggest you get on with it and _do_ grow up, child, for God's sake. And, for the record, I am _perfectly_ unashamed of my inability to do magic. The only time it _does_ annoy me is when I have to drive little snot-nosed brats like yourself around and put up with your crap. Now, not one more complaint for the rest of the journey or I may indeed take Seamus up on his suggestion."

The Gryffindors, Susan and Lisa laughed, and even Blaise Zabini, sitting at the back, cracked a grin.

"Bad luck, Pans," he called.

"Shut your trap, you duplicitous bastard!"

"MISS PARKINSON!" Nancy roared. Cowed, the students fell into silence, and Harry took to observing them once more. Ten, in total, and what a group they were. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Seamus, and Lavender – all fair and good, all friends, not a problem. Susan Bones, their sole Hufflepuff, he liked well enough – a member of Dumbledore's Army, a person he knew. Lisa Turpin, from Ravenclaw, he didn't know much about, but she was quiet and meek, tending to hide herself behind a sheet of pale blonde hair and avoid conversation. He doubted they would butt heads. But it was the Slytherins, he thought, that were making this so difficult. Pansy Parkinson, head bitch, Blaise Zabini – as Pansy had aptly called him, a duplicitous bastard – and, to top it all off, Draco _sodding_ Malfoy. Had Harry known that he would be here, he might have rethought this whole eighth-year debacle, ethics or no ethics. He _had _wanted to complete an eighth-year, he really had – get back to the normality of school, see his friends, perhaps complete _one_ year of schooling without Voldemort looming over his life. And not just that, but taking an eighth-year would have allowed him to go into Auror training because he was _genuinely_ good enough, because he had the real talent and ability, because he'd taken the exams to prove it. He didn't want to be allowed into the program just because he was the Savior, the Boy-Who-Lived – he wanted to do it the fair and proper way. Hermione had practically glowed with pride when he'd told her his plan to join her for another year at school. Ron, of course, had only jumped on the band-wagon because Hermione and Harry were going, but then again, who could deny him the opportunity for peace and quiet and their company, especially knowing what the war had done to him – to everyone? When they had written to McGonnagall, asking about an eighth-year, they'd expected an enthusiastic response. And an enthusiastic response they received, but there was a catch. A very _big_ catch...

* * *

><p>"<em>Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger," McGonaggall grinned as they tumbled out of her fireplace in turn. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today – I believe we have much to discuss."<em>

_He'd nodded and smiled, confused none-the-less. A glance at Hermione and Ron told him they felt exactly the same way; they'd discussed it standing in the kitchen of The Burrow, and not one of them could come up with any idea what the big discussion was to be about._

_Seeing as it was their wonderfully pragmatic and practical Headmistress, however, they could expect not to be kept waiting long, and took seats in front of her desk, Harry and Ron helping themselves to shortbread when offerered._

"_Now, as I understand, all three of you are interested in undertaking an eighth year of study, yes?"_

"_Yes, headmistress," Hermione said, carefully plucked brows furrowing – she'd made the mistake of letting Ginny near her with a grooming charm the night before, and her eyebrows had only just survived being plucked into non-existence. But it did give her a more clean cut, patrician look, paired with the bun that she'd slicked her hair into at the nape of her neck. The picture of a studious Gryffindor, Harry thought with a smile, watching his best friend as she sat straighter. "The Ministry did approve the retaking of classes for students affected by the war, didn't they?"_

"_Oh, of course, this is the generation they most want to better," McGonaggall said, sitting heavily down in her own seat behind the desk, relieved to take the weight from her bad leg. "The generation they feel most sorrow for. And with Kingsley as Minister, well, it would have been impossible not to pass this movement. However, there is... a problem."_

_At that, Harry's ears pricked up – Ron's faced turned oddly hopeful, if only for a minute, and Hermione looked as if someone had just told her Crookshanks had been hit by the Knight Bus._

"_What kind of a problem?" Harry piped up, leaning forward in his seat. McGonaggall had sighed, then, running a hand over her eyes._

"_You see, Mr. Potter, Hogwarts was designed with a set number of students in mind. And with the magnitude of those wishing to return, almost your full year, there simply is not enough room to house them."_

"_Spare classrooms? Abandoned wings? Magical enlargements?" Hermione said desperately, one hand flying to her temple, where it twisted anxiously with one lock of hair._

"_We could hardly house students in classrooms, Miss Granger, though I appreciate your determination, and your other suggestions are also worthy of note. What with the destruction during the war, however, much of the rebuilding work will have to continue in the beginning months of next year's first term. There will be new and old students returning, and I thought you __three would most understand our wish to give them a normal year of schooling, without any more disturbance than necessary. I think you'll agree that an eighth-year running around with special study arrangements and such comes under that category, not to mention that it would put our faculty under extra strain."_

_Hermione visibly drooped, shoulders slumping, and Harry felt his heart sink. So much for his big plan for doing the right thing. To his, Hermione – and, he dared think, the Headmistress' – surprise, however, Ron suddenly spoke up._

"_But there's an alternative, isn't there?"_

"_Of course, Mr Weasley," McGonaggall smiled, before drawing her wand and levitating a small, glass bowl – rather like a fishbowl, with an open space at the top – from the corner of the office on to her was filled with paper, tiny little pieces, all of which seemed to have writing on them. "Write your names onto a piece of paper and drop them in, and I shall report back with more news."_

_They had done so, and found themselves ushered out of the office soon after, with no more of an explanation than they had arrived with, and a great deal more to think about._

* * *

><p>And that, Harry grumbled to himself, was why he'd ended up stuck in a stupid bloody van with this rag-tag bunch. McGonaggall's big idea for an eighth-year was certainly good, but it was hard to see that when you were stuck in a situation like this. All of the returning eighth-years had apparently undergone a similar meeting, placed their names in the bowl, and been drawn out completely by chance. This made for an uneven split of houses, as was clearly evident in their group, but it was most fair. Harry thanked his lucky stars that he'd ended up with a decent amount of Gryffindors, and especially Hermione and Ron, because surely this entire enterprise would have been hopeless without them. However, Fate clearly thought itself funny by placing Draco, Pansy and Blaise in what would otherwise have been a great group to spend a year almost alone with. Because instead of Hogwarts castle, each of the four groups was to spend their time in a house completely removed from their usual situation, visited by tutors instead of taking classes from their usual teachers. Harry knew, from observing the road signs and from general common sense, that they were somewhere in Yorkshire, but other than that he had pretty much no idea where they were. He had wondered for a while why they weren't apparating, but not everybody had passed the test, and there were too many to Side-Along, which meant that getting to whatever undisclosed location they were headed to would be a problem. As Nancy pulled up the van at the end of a long, winding road and hopped out of her seat, however, he realised he was about to find out just where they were going.<p>

The others – including a mightily confused, _just_ awake Ronald Weasley – began to gather their coats and rucksacks, and in Pansy's case a huge dragonhide handbag, before filing out and facing the bracing wind.

"Right!" Nancy said, hands on hips as her dirty blonde hair fluttered away from her face. "Are we all ready, then?"

Seamus gave her a salute, which made her smile, and the others murmured their assent as they looked around. They were parked on an immense flat of moor, with nothing to be observed but trees, grass and hills, as far as Harry's – admittedly myopic – eyes could see. There _was_ the shadow of a village in the distance, but it was too hard to make anything else out. _Please let it be filled with sane people_, Harry prayed.

"Um, Nancy," Lavender piped up for the first time in hours, firmly holding her hair over one shoulder, hiding the scarring left on her neck by Greyback. "Don't mind me asking, but where are we?"

"North Yorkshire moors, lovely," Nancy said with a grin. "About four miles from Danby. Lovely town, if you ever get bored of a weekend you can take a march down there, have a look about. But don't expect anything big."

"Oh, fabulous," Pansy said with a huff, planting herself down on a nearby rock and folding her arms.

"Don't get too comfy, little miss, you've got a walk yet. Just as well we've stopped driving, isn't it, because now you can complain all you like." Nancy smirked, buttoning her coat up to the neck. "Right, c'mon! Best get going before it starts to get dark, you'll want to settle in. Follow me."

At that, Nancy shoved her hands into her pockets and set off, jerking her head for them to follow her. Sighing, Harry headed after her, Ron and Hermione after him, and the rest bringing up the rear.

"Bloody hell, this is weird, isn't it?" Ron said thoughtfully, Hermione's hand caught tight in his. Harry had had the entire summer to get used to _that_ weirdness (it was still weird even if it had been inevitable), so he had to assume Ron was talking about their current situation.

"Yeah, just a bit. Do you reckon we're far?"

"I hope not," Ron grumbled. "I'm starving, and the sooner we get there, the sooner I can eat dinner and go to bed."

"Fat pig," Parkinson said snootily, charging on ahead. Nobody bothered to conceal their laughter when Susan drew her wand and cast a Stinging Hex at the back of Pansy's knees, sending her flying, but Nancy fixed them with a disappointed look and informed them that they had to stay focused if they wanted to get home in one piece.

They _weren't_ far, in reality. Nancy led them over the crest of a hill and there, close enough by that Harry didn't feel any worse for it, was the place he guessed they'd stay. Down over another flat plain and through a doorway in the high yard wall, and they were finally there.

"So, this is it." Nancy said, oddly proud, flinging one arm wide.

"This." Zabini said, sounding defeated. Even Malfoy, who had barely spoken a word all afternoon, raised his eyebrows in horror. Harry was pleased to note that none of the others, not even Lavender, showed such snobbery.

"_This_?" Parkinson squawked. "That's it, take me back to Mummy, screw an eighth-year."

"Now now, Pansy, you haven't seen the inside or heard anything about it," Nancy said. "This is Domus Mauri."

At their blank faces, she rolled her eyes and shook her head, pushing her straggly hair away from her face.

"Honestly, all those years at Hogwarts and you don't recognise simple Latin? It means the house on the moors. As far as I know, your friends are stationed at Domus per Flumen – house by the river, in this case near the river Eden - the house of the mountains, Domus Montes up by the Cairngorms, and Domus Maris, house of the sea, which is way down by Penzance. You'll be given proper addresses for them, of course, in case you want to write, but this is all yours. Alright? I'll show you the inside."

Drawing a key from her jacket pocket, Nancy advanced, but Harry hung back a little to observe the house he'd be living in. It was of a decent size, with another gate in the wall on the other side of the yard that presumably led to a small garden. The house itself was in the shape of a U, upside-down and facing them, with two storeys and a good number of windows. Several of the others had had the same idea in observing their new home – almost all, in fact, which prompted their guide to stick her head out of one of the lower windows and cluck her tongue.

"Come on now, I've not got all day!"

The door to the right-hand wing of the building was flung roughly open, and the group scurried forward into a warm kitchen, low-ceilinged and slightly dark thanks to the almost-setting sun. There was an aga in one corner, black and shiny, a fridge (how _Muggle_, and how strange) a view from the window into – Harry had been right, there _was _a garden. It even had a vegetable patch and deckchairs.

"It's very idyllic," Lisa observed, nervously leaning over next to him to see. He smiled at her, because he had a feeling he was going to need all the friends he could get from now on. She gave him a tentative smile back, freckled nose wrinkling very slightly in a way that reminded Harry almost painfully of Ginny.

"Er, Nancy," he called, as she yanked hard on the handle of the door that would lead them to the rest of the house. "Are we allowed visitors?"

"Oh, I don't know Harry, you'll need to take that up with Minerva," she said as the door finally opened. "Ha! Finally. Right, this is the hallway..."

* * *

><p>They were led through several rooms after that. The small hallway – more of a vestibule, really, with a tight, steep staircase leading to the upper floor. The vestibule had a door that led to the central part of the house, and in here would be where they did most of their learning, so there were four low tables and a blackboard on the far wall. Through another door and they were led to a large sitting room. This was probably Harry's favourite – there was a big, hearty fireplace, a comfortable looking sofa and three armchairs, a bench by the window that looked onto the yard, coat hooks, a sturdy bookshelf, and even a dusty, out-of-use piano in the corner, opposite another doorway that led outside. Surprisingly, Parkinson had looked half-pleased and played a couple of out-of-tune scales that had made Seamus tell her off for what probably wouldn't be the last time that <em>day,<em> never mind the rest of their stay. The next issue to be undertaken, of course, was the bedrooms – two on each side of the house, connected by a wide hallway that ran above their classroom.

"This is it all, then," Nancy said. "Your things have been delivered to your respective rooms, I've got a dormitory – well, if you can call it that anyway – list here. Draco, you're with Blaise, furthest room on the left wing. Hermione and Susan, next door to the boys and next to the bathroom on your other side. That'll be nice, first dibs on a bath, eh? Harry, Ron, Seamus, I'm sorry but you've been put in a three. But the bedroom's bigger, you're the nearest bedroom to us here on the right. And that leaves Pansy, Lavender and Lisa, next door to the lovely Gryffindors here. Any problems, anyone?"

Each of them shook their heads slowly. Well, at least their sleeping arrangements were decent, although Hermione looked less than pleased at being Malfoy and Zabini's next door neighbour, and Lavender looked like she was sucking a lemon at the prospect of sharing with Pansy.

"Good!" Nancy smiled brightly. "Well, I'd best be off if I want to be home any time before midnight. All the best to you, really. You deserve a good year. I'll leave the key downstairs on the kitchen table, along with the rules. Your first tutor arrives tomorrow morning, so try not to kill each other before then!" Nancy laughed, before straightening her clothing and pottering downstairs. "Bye now!"

"If only she knew how true her words were," Zabini sighed dramatically when she was gone, one hand splayed across his breast-bone. "I for one fear poison-by-Gryffindor, _a la_ poor King Hamlet."

"Oh, shut up," Susan piped up annoyedly, red hair shimmering as she tossed her head. Another burst of Ginny-longing erupted in Harry's chest and he frowned, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "We're here to make the best of it, aren't we? Come on, Hermione, we'll go and see to our things. You brought Crookshanks, didn't you?"

The two girls marched off together along the hall, and the spell was broken – Malfoy and Zabini slouched off after them, and Harry, Seamus and Ron hurried towards their own quarters. Shoving through the door, they found three iron bedsteads, each with their trunks piled at the end. Seamus had the bed against the far wall, Ron the middle, and Harry the bed nearest. He instantly threw himself down upon it, sighing as he kicked off his shoes. It was surprisingly comfortable, and Merlin only knew that it had been a long day. Ignoring a shriek of "Circe, what the _fuck_ is that, Lisa? Is that a _rat_?" from Parkinson next door, Harry shut his eyes and buried his face in the slightly musty smelling pillow, wishing for sleep.

"Well, here we are," Seamus began, putting paid to _that _notion. "Any bets on the first argument?"

"Never mind arguments, when the hell's dinner?" Ron said mournfully. "Nancy didn't mention anything about that – oh, _Merlin_, do you think we'll have to cook for ourselves?"

"Ron, is all you think about your stomach?" A female voice sighed from the door. Cracking an eyelid, Harry observed Hermione, standing in bare feet with Crookshanks in one arm and the list of rules in the other. "Yes, it says here we have to cook for ourselves, but a house-elf will arrive once a week for laundry and general house-keeping, and to stock the fridge and cupboards. Well, that's not so bad," she said, even as her boyfriend flung himself backwards in a state of abject misery. "I've had a look, they've got beef in the fridge, I reckon I can rustle up a decent stew. Come on, we'll go downstairs and make the best."

Another shriek rang out from next door and all four shared an alarmed look before deciding it was best not to ask. Ron followed Hermione out, placing his hands on her waist and earning himself an amused chuckle, but Seamus stayed, hovering by the doorway.

"You coming, Harry?" he asked, holding onto the frame, poised to move.

"In a bit, I want to do something first." He said, eyeing Ron's new owl in the cage at the foot of the bed. "You go on, I'll be down soon."

After his last companion had left, Harry rifled through his trunk to find parchment and a quill and settled down on the floor to write.

_Dear Ginny,_

_Well, I've arrived. We're in some sort of farmhouse near Danby, out on the moors in Yorkshire – hardly a thing for miles, it's nothing like Hogwarts. We're probably the worst group out of all the eighth-years – it's Ron, Hermione, me, and Seamus and Lavender, then the dreaded Slytherin trio - Malfoy, Zabini and Parkinson - and Susan Bones and Lisa Turpin. You'll probably try and tell me it's not that bad, but you're not house-sharing with Malfoy._

He paused. Perhaps that was a little bit negative.

_I'm sorry if I sound a bit bitter, Gin. It's just been a long day and I'm missing you already. I asked our co-ordinator if we were allowed any visitors but she says I'll need to ask McGonaggall about that. But hopefully you'll be allowed to come down here of a weekend, all going well._

_Jesus, Gin, this is going to be hard._

_Sorry. I'd best go now, this'll probably make you want to throw yourself in with the Giant Squid. I know you were hoping we'd be able to talk about things properly, but we can still do that sometime soon. Maybe. Actually, you could ask McGonaggall, couldn't you?_

_Well, Hermione's attempting stew, so I'd better be off downstairs to face the music. Feels like being thrown to the dogs – I'll be lucky if I escape with my life if Pansy Parkinson has anything to do with it._

_Write back,_

_Harry_

He debated briefly whether to put kisses, but it _was_ Ginny he was writing to; she was remarkably unfrivolous, which was one of the things he best liked about her. She didn't need frills and flowers, and would most likely be pleased Harry had thought of her at all. So he swiftly tied the note to Ron's owl's leg – it didn't have a name yet, poor girl – and sent it off out of one of the two windows, over the trees in the garden. He watched it until it vanished from sight and sighed, turning back to the open doorway and heading out into the corridor – oh.

Malfoy was standing right in front of him, dressed down from earlier in a thin black jumper and black trousers. He didn't have any shoes on, only grey socks, and it sat badly with Harry – he'd only ever seen Malfoy with no composure once, and that had ended badly to say the least.

"Are you going to stand there staring all day, Scarhead, or am I going to have to push you down the stairs?" Malfoy sneered, thin upper lip curling. Scowling and refusing to give Malfoy an answer, Harry turned and thundered down the staircase.

Well, their situation might be different, but it seemed some things would always stay the same.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, hello. This is my newest work, and don't worry, it's going to be multi-chaptered (and there WILL be eventual HP/DM, so don't fret.) I know you don't get much character info in this but it's just the introductory chapter, so I didn't want to make it too long. Sorry for the over-descriptiveness, I promise that'll change. And this is my first slash fic for any fandom, so if it sucks then I'm totally sorry. Some general warnings, however: This fanfiction will eventually deal with depression, a hell of a lot of angst, suicide attempts (specifically involving drowning) and probably a few unpleasant things, but there'll hopefully be a big old bunch of love and friendship in all eventualities. I have no idea how long this will be, or how often it'll be updated, but please bear with me, I promise I'll try my best. :)**

**(ALSO other pairings to watch out for: eventual BZ/GW, RW/HG and eventual LB/SF. If any of them are a squick, maybe give this a miss. I'm not saying they'll be at the forefront or anything and a few will take a while to develop but yeah, they'll be in there.)**

**Ciao for now!**

_**Cherry**_


	2. Chapter 2

The next day dawned far too bright and early for Harry's liking, sunlight streaming in through the open window in between he and Ron's beds. The room seemed to look different, now, and he gave himself the chance to properly look around after he shoved his glasses on – the walls were smooth white, and a spider was spinning a web in the corner behind the door. His duvet was thick, probably eiderdown, and had been covered with a patchwork blanket he'd kicked off in the night. The floor was covered in a dusky red carpet - appropriate enough for Gryffindors - and there was a deep-drawered chest in the corner, just by the foot of Seamus' bed. Above it hung a mirror, which Harry was distinctly sure he heard yawn.

Smiling, he sat up and rubbed ineffectually at his hair, which probably only made it worse. The mirror seemed to agree, if the sleepy sigh of '_ghastly_' that reached his ears was any indication. Still, it was comforting to have something so very clearly magical in an unfamiliar and downright strange location, and Harry found he couldn't take the insult to heart. Grabbing the wash bag and towel hanging on the end of his bed, he figured he had best beat the crowd and get to the bathroom, seeing as nobody else seemed to be up. Cracking the door, he found that to be true. Somebody who _had _to be Pansy Parkinson was snoring loud enough to wake the dead next door, but the rest of the house was still and silent. The floorboards creaked underfoot as Harry moved and looked out of the window of the hallway into the yard – again, all he could see for miles and miles was heath and moor, trees and the occasional sheep, but even that had a certain charm lit up by bright sunshine as it was. The bathroom, however, thoroughly ruined his optimistic mood. It was _freezing_, the cracked black-and-white tiles almost like ice beneath his feet, and there was a slight mist of condensation on the glass. As well as that, when he tried to relieve his bladder, Crookshanks jumped down from the window ledge over the toilet and scared him senseless, which ended up having very unsatisfactory results. Looking around, Harry rubbed his arms and tried to get back some of his earlier cheer back. Everybody else but him had unpacked their things, it seemed – one side of the counter was littered with Ron and Seamus' bog-standard bathroom gear, the other with what looked to be expensive and high-quality, probably belonging to either Malfoy or Zabini or both. A similar pattern went on on the other side of the counter with the girls' belongings, the wash bag he recognized from spending a year with Hermione looking out of place next to Pansy's neat, elegant storage case. Lisa and Susan had claimed a shelf above the counter, obviously leaving the small space on the edge for him. Thoughtful of them, Harry thought with a bleak smile, struggling to fit his things on before giving up and tossing them down on top of one of the two laundry baskets.

Now for the real challenge – the shower. It was a rickety old thing, fixed roughly to the wall above the bath, looking as if it might be a struggle for it to produce water at all. A far cry from the perfection of the Gryffindor bathrooms, Harry thought mournfully, but he'd give it a go. The water that poured out was surprisingly warm, and it was almost enjoyable to stand in the bathtub (the _huge_ bathtub, he could easily have lain in it and fit top-to-toe) and look out of the window across the moor, Danby just visible over the crest of the hill. When the faucet began to rattle and the water to drip cold, Harry leapt from the shower, startled. This proved not to be the best idea, as he went to the floor, skidded and then crashed into the toilet, smashing his knee. This in turn caused him to swear at the top of his lungs and flail wildly, knocking most of Pansy's precious things down on top of him.

"Who's that? Are you alright?" A feminine voice called, and Harry had barely any time to move before Lisa Turpin threw the door open. She was fully dressed, of course, which made the situation worse – in perhaps the most demure night-dress Harry had ever seen, a cotton thing that had full-length sleeves, went to the ankles and had a high neck, which covered most, but not certainly not _all_, of her blush.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry Harry – I'll just, um, sorry, I'll leave you to it, are you – you're alright though?"

"Yep, Lisa, fine," Harry said grimly. The last of Lisa's sentence had been said with her hands firmly planted over her eyes. This situation couldn't get any worse. "I'll be out in a minute, if you'll just, er..."

"Right! Sorry," Lisa said, relieved, turning and slamming the door behind her. Harry groaned and rolled weakly onto his front, his knee still screaming in protest.

Well, at least it hadn't been a Slytherin.

* * *

><p>Said Slytherins, however, had much more on their minds than catching an awkward Harry Potter coming out of the shower. Pansy was currently leaning almost fully out of the window in Draco and Blaise's shared bedroom, one leg cocked up and the foot curled around her other calf, a steady stream of words tumbling from her mouth.<p>

"I mean, come on, boys, do you not think it's ridiculous us being shoved here in the middle of nowhere?" She said, turning her head. The reason for her leaning dangled from the corner of her mouth - a slim cherry menthol cigarette, curling smoke around her cheek.

"What's ridiculous, Pansy, is the way you won't shut up," Blaise said distractedly, rifling through his trunk. "Alright, it's not what you expected, waa-waa. No shops for miles, boo-hoo, poor little Pansy. Stop being a brat, you wanted to sign up for this -"

"No I _didn't_, Blaise, my mum and dad wanted me to – last thing they said to me before getting locked away, and in case you hadn't noticed I didn't much fancy spending two years in the house on my own with the rest of us in _prison _or _worse_ -"

"Change the record, baby." Blaise snorted, finally drawing out a crumpled white shirt. "Well, this simply won't do, will it?" Drawing his wand, he cast a quick charm and it straightened out, collar pointed perfectly.

"Don't call me _baby_, Blaise, you prat. What about you? We all know _you're _only here because your mother didn't want you around fucking up wedding number nine."

"Neither here nor there -"

"You know _what_, Blaise -"

"Can you please shut up?" Draco tried to interrupt, but his voice was quiet and they simply continued to bicker. He really didn't have the energy to deal with this, he thought angrily – but then again, he didn't have the energy to shout, either. He settled for throwing out an arm and swatting Pansy hard across the back of the thigh with the back of his hand, revelling in the sharp _thwack _the action made. When Pansy rounded on him, he simply tried his best to look innocent – hard enough in a short sleeved t-shirt that showed his marked left arm, but hopefully the big grey eyes and ruffled blonde hair would help.

"Just be thankful it wasn't your arse," he advised her, trying for a smile. "It's not as if you left me another option to get your attention, Pansy darling, and really, what's a bit of light violence between best friends?"

"You won't be my best friend for much longer if you do it again," She grumbled. "Anyway, _as_ my friend, you're meant to stick up for me!"

"Oh? Well, I suppose I'm not predisposed to help those that impose on my privacy and morning routine. I'd like to get dressed, Pansy, so if you would please be so kind as to _clear the fuck out_, I would be forever grateful." He smiled again, a real cheek-to-cheek grin this time, and that did the trick. Glaring, Pansy gave him a smart nod, jaw tensed, before grabbing Blaise by the collar and hauling him out of the door – even angry at him, Pansy still knew to do him a favour. As soon as they were gone and the door pulled tight, Draco moved shakily back to lying down, hands pressed tight to his eyes as he took a rattling breath. He knew how his friends felt, of course; he didn't want to be here full-stop, but he'd been backed into a corner about it by his mother and his Aunt Andromeda, who had been indispensable following the war. His father, funnily enough, hadn't had much to say about it from his cell in Azkaban. There wasn't point in anything much these days, Draco found, but especially not in taking on more study. Because what good was it going to do him? Nobody was going to hire him for work anyway, not with the Malfoy name, not a marked man. Boy, really, which was what made it worse; he had that much longer to live out his misery and regret. The space on the bed next to him suddenly dipped, and before he had time to open his eyes a set of cool, bitten lips were pressed to his cheek.

"Sorry, Draco," Pansy whispered. "I know you don't – well, we're not making it any easier. I'm sorry."

By the time he looked up, however, she was gone.

* * *

><p>Harry, meanwhile, had made it downstairs – thankfully fully dressed – to find Lavender, Susan and Hermione, endeavoring to concoct some sort of breakfast for everyone. It could only go better than the night before, which had included – but was not limited to – badly veiled insults to Hermione's cooking, several raised voices, mashed potato being flung across the room and straight into Pansy Parkinson's hair after she inquired why nobody had thought of dauphinoise instead, and at least three people taking off in high dudgeon. There was a slightly calmer feeling this morning, though, but Harry thought that might just be because not all ten of them were shoved into a space that was frankly too small to house their rivalry and annoyance.<p>

"Morning," he greeted the girls cheerfully, taking a seat near the aga and reaching out to warm his fingers.

"Good morning to you, too, Harry," Lavender said, a twinkle evident in her eye. _Oh_. "And I trust Lisa had a good morning as well?"

"It was an _accident_, I'll have you know, I don't just go around willy nilly flashing my business to every girl I meet!" Harry said hotly, cheeks flushing.

"Willy being the operative word." Susan remarked airily, and all of a sudden the girls were dissolving in giggles – even Hermione, and Harry's feeling of betrayal was only cut short by the addition of another to their party.

"Glad to hear that our revered saviour isn't a sexual deviant." Parkinson had appeared in the doorway, dressed in a silky green sun-dress, hair smoothed sharply into her regulation bob. It still didn't do anything to draw attention from her pug nose, however, and Harry allowed himself a smirk.

"Sorry to disappoint, I know how you like that kind of thing in Slytherin," he replied. He got no answer to that, only a dark look as she pulled her tailored jacket from the coat hook and marched outside.

"Oi, where are you going?" Lavender demanded.

"To see a witch about a kneazle," the other girl said languourously, not bothering to turn back. "Don't worry your little head about it, Lav-Lav."

The door slammed shut behind her, the heavy metal latch rattling as the others flinched.

"Well firstly, I can't believe she dared call me Lav-Lav," Lavender said indignantly, setting aside the bowl of eggs she'd been busy scrambling and folding her arms.

"Yeah, we all know only I get to call you that. What a cow," Seamus joked as he entered, but he didn't seem to find it so funny when Lavender launched an egg across the room at his head. Susan and Harry, however, were a completely different matter.

"Please, children, behave!" Hermione cried plaintively. "Or if you can't, at least get out until breakfast is ready – for heaven's sake, it's at least another hour before class starts!"

"Wait, how do you know that?" Harry said, catching his breath from laughing. Hermione rolled her eyes and pointed one hand at the note pinned to the fridge, which on closer inspection was revealed to be their timetable. And as if they couldn't get any _further_ from Hogwarts, Harry thought as he read.

_9 AM – 11 AM: CHARMS with PROFESSOR RUSH_

_11 AM – 11:30 AM: BREAK_

_11:30 AM – 1:30 PM: POTIONS WITH PROFESSOR WORTHINGTON_

_1:30 PM – 3:00PM: LUNCH/BREAK_

_3:00PM – 5:00PM: TRANSFIGURATION WITH PROFESSOR BLAKE_

"So we only have three classes?" Seamus asked as he read over Harry's shoulder, a bit of egg-white trailing down his jumper. "Bloody weird, that. Do you reckon we get different ones each day?"

"Yes, it refreshes itself at seven-thirty in the morning from Monday to Friday," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "Honestly, did none of you bother to read _anything_ in the rules and notes that Nancy left us?"

At the innocent, blank expressions that she received in return, Hermione couldn't help but sigh, pressing one hand to her forehead.

"Well, I suggest you do. That means you won't know we aren't taking Care of Magical Creatures-"

"No great loss," Lavender said, picking up her eggs again now that she was satisfied Seamus had received just punishment. "Although it won't be the same without Hagrid."

"You didn't even _like_ him!" Seamus said, siphoning off the last of the egg with his wand.

"No, but... well, you don't appreciate what you had until it's gone, do you?"

Harry thought of Ginny again, and how she hadn't returned his note, and his heart dropped as he turned to agree.

"No, you really don't."

* * *

><p>Nine o'clock found them all – even Parkinson, who had reappeared just in the nick of time looking windswept and smelling suspiciously of cherry – sitting at their desks, three at each and Seamus on his own. Lavender, Lisa and Susan had taken it upon themselves to claim the front desk, with the Slytherins behind them and Harry, Ron and Hermione on the far left, close enough to the living room door that they could see the fireplace that their new Professor was about to Floo through.<p>

"Boy or girl?" Seamus asked, sitting at the desk in front of them and picking at his nails with his quill. "Got to be a girl, Rush sounds like a girl's second name."

"You can't judge gender based on second name!" Susan said from her desk, looking affronted. "Honestly, Seamus, are you only here for teachers to fixate on?"

"Part o' it, not gonna lie to you, Suze," Seamus winked. Lavender rolled her eyes, yanking again on the thick veil of hair that fell over her right shoulder. It was a nervous reflex, Harry knew; he had seen it at least twice an hour over the course of the last few days, no matter how hard Lavender tried to project a confident attitude. He felt sorry for her – she was a far cry from the ditzy girl he remembered, and half of him missed that airheaded-ness. It would have been a light relief from the current atmosphere, in any case, with Parkinson fidgetting and sighing and Malfoy staring at the wall straight ahead, looking half-dead with black shadows under his eyes.

A bang from next door alerted them all to the arrival of their new Professor, and everybody's head snapped round.

"Oh, Merlin." Seamus said, voice low. Professor Rush _was_ a girl – in the loosest terms, anyway; she had to be at _least_ sixty, with a grey bun pulled severely on top of her head. She was rake-thin, and Harry could tell she would have been pretty as a young woman, but here today she was hardly the stuff of fantasy. Still, she smiled, blue eyes crinkling at the edges, and Harry relaxed from a tension he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"Good morning, you lot," she said, and it lightened his spirits even further. He had never _heard_ a thicker Birmingham accent, and it was so out of place that he almost laughed. "I'm Professor Rush, but you can call me whatever you like, my first name's Goldie."

"Is it really?" Parkinson asked sarcastically, but Rush didn't catch the attitude.

"No, course not, daft lass. It's Gwendolyn, but I used to be a blonde before I got all old and boring, hence Goldie." She rolled her eyes and smiled at the Slytherin girl, who looked horrified to be treated in such a friendly manner by somebody so clearly beneath her standards. "Oh, I almost forgot! Which of you strapping lads is going to help me bring in what the Headmistress sent you?"

"I'll do it, Goldie." Zabini instantly offered. Harry and Ron turned to each other, sickened by the blatant ass-kissery. Ron even managed to stick his tongue out and do a mime-retch, but Hermione stamped on his foot, clearly infuriated with all of the childishness she'd put up with this morning.

"Disgusting flirt," Parkinson muttered from the back, and Harry – for the first time in his life – agreed.

"So, how do you find it?" Goldie asked when Zabini had left the room, gesturing wildly at their surroundings. "I think it's lovely, great idea good old Mins had."

"Mins?" Hermione asked weakly, looking appalled.

"Yeah, Minerva. Oh, we go way back, her and me, met at some Hogwarts do and all that, when I was just a sprightly young thing," Rush had conjured a chair from nowhere and sat herself down in it by the blackboard, just as Blaise lugged a large bag into the room. "Right! Here we go, these are for you."

"What are they?" Ron asked confusedly, craning his neck to see as Rush began to pull out – were those _jumpers_?

"House jumpers, since you don't have a uniform. Gryffindor girls, here you are," She said, holding them out until Hermione and Lavender moved to take them. They were red, of course, slouchy and soft-looking, the house crest on the left breast. "Boys? Oh, here, do it yourself, I suppose I'd better get started."

* * *

><p>"That was singularly the most insane thing I have ever experienced." Lavender said later, lying on the Gryffindor boys' bedroom floor, still wearing her jumper. She had pulled it up over her chin, her hair fanning out around her as she rested her feet on the wall. Seamus sat next to her, looking over his notes from the day's classes, expression gloomy.<p>

"I know. And I _still_ ain't got no clue about what the hell Rush was on about. Or any of the others, come to that – reckon it's still early days enough to drop out?"

"Course not." Ron said from his bed where he was absently leafing through a copy of _Which Broomstick_. Hermione sat at his feet, already working on their first Potions essay. "McGonagall would have your balls."

"I rather like my balls," Seamus said mournfully, smiling at Lavender's disgusted expression. "Hey, at least Professor Worthington was a fittie."

"_Eugh_, Seamus, for fuck's sake!" Lavender said, punching him in the thigh, hard enough that he flinched. "We don't need to hear about your stupid teacher kink, thanks."

Harry rolled his eyes as he watched them all from the safety of his own bed, although he was comforted by their easy rapport. He supposed Professor Worthington had a certain charm, with her curly brown hair and bright smile, encased in a fruit-print dress. But she had also been giggly and simpering, and if she hadn't had such a way with Potions he would have been surprised at her profession. Out of them all, though, he had liked Professor Blake best. He had been young, wearing a neat fitting Muggle shirt and trousers, with scruffy auburn hair and a no-nonsense manner, but he had had them all laughing – even Parkinson, who for most of the day had looked like somebody had rammed something rather sharp up her behind.

"Jesus fuck, what was that?" Seamus suddenly exclaimed, rousing Harry from his contemplations of the day, and he spun to see a dark shadow flit past the window again.

"Don't be stupid, Seamus, it's only an owl." He said, getting up to open the window. A Hogwarts owl swooped in and dropped a letter at the foot of Harry's bed, but before he could do anything else, it was off out of the window again. It was a beautifully clear evening, the Yorkshire sky streaked pink and gold, and Harry was momentarily distracted by the beauty of it, staring with his hands planted on the windowsill.

"Gonna read your mail, or will I have to?" Ron eventually asked, exasperated. Harry shook his head and snatched up the letter, because he knew who it was from and for Ron to read it would be _more_ than excruciating, even if it included nothing out of the ordinary.

"God, the blush on him, you can tell it's from Ginny." Lavender said with a wicked grin, sitting up on her elbows.

"Alright, everyone shut up!" Harry grumbled, getting off his bed and moving to the door. "Now I'm going to read my mail in peace, if that's alright, away from all you nosy idiots."

"Be sure to give us the gossip!" Seamus called after him, to raucous laughter. Harry snorted as he descended the stairs, amused despite himself. He was feeling alright today, in all honesty. He had managed to stay somewhat in the company of friends, although dinner was going to be a different matter – that was if they all decided to eat at the same time, which might not happen thanks to yesterday's occurences. Stepping out into the yard, Harry took a deep breath of fresh air, then settled down next to the kitchen door and began to read.

_Alright Harry,_

_Was so lovely to hear from you. Classes today were alright, sorry I didn't get back to you sooner but you know how the first day back is. And no, I won't bother telling you it's not that bad, I'd rather drink Slughorn's piss than share a house with that lot. Lisa and Susan are lovely, though, and look at it as having an advantage over them in numbers, slimy gits. Glad to hear you're all safe and well, though, but God, aren't you bored? I know I would be, it's bad enough at the Burrow when there's nothing to do._

_Anyway, I spoke to McGonagall. She says it'd be alright if I visited, but only on Hogsmeade weekends, which means I won't be able to see you until October. Sorry, really. I know we still need to talk but it might just have to wait._

_Miss you,_

_Gin_

Sighing, Harry rolled his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Great. So he was stuck here with the others – and only the others – for company when he wasn't in class for at least another month. Was it just him, or was the whole universe conspiring against him?

* * *

><p>"Someone looks miserable," Blaise said conversationally, leaning back in his armchair and looking out of the window at Potter, who was slumped on the ground.<p>

"Can't blame him, it's been a long day." Draco said absently, reclined on the sofa with his head in Pansy's lap as she played with his hair, reading _Witch Weekly_ and tutting occasionally.

"Oh, look at you being all sympathetic," Blaise laughed. "Surely you should be jumping at the chance to find out what's made him look like somebody's just ripped his heart out through his arse so you can use it against him?"

"Firstly, that was unnecessarily descriptive, and secondly... No." Draco said quietly, staring up at the ceiling. "I don't want... that. I want to be left in peace"

"This again," Pansy said distantly, before setting her magazine aside and looking down at him with some concern. "Are you feeling alright? Potter-baiting was such a hobby of yours. Where's my Draco gone?"

"Still here," Draco said with a weak smile, reaching around to pat her knee. "I'm not saying I won't indulge in the occasional spot of mild aggravation – it's instinct, you know. I'm just saying I'm not actively seeking it out, because _God_, that means I'd actually have to spend time with the prat."

"Valid point, well made," Blaise conceded, looking out of the window. "Still, though. We need to amuse ourselves somehow, and if Potter's off the menu..." He looked over at Pansy and waggled one eyebrow, which got him nowhere.

"Mordred, Blaise, if you think I'm letting you anywhere near me after fifth year and the incident with the Gillywater, you're very much mistaken. You might want to shag anything with a pulse, but I'd willingly Stun myself to keep you off."

Draco laughed as Blaise sputtered, feeling oddly content for the first time in at least a week, since before he'd heard he was definitely to be undertaking his eighth-year. When he'd seen Potter, standing with his sidekicks by the side of the van, his heart had plummeted further than he'd thought possible. He'd already thanked the git after the trials in the summer, and again when he'd been handed back the wand – how many times was he going to be shoved under his nose? Was this Draco's punishment for his crimes – to constantly be forced into the company of his nemesis, always reminded of his failures and mediocrity?

"Draco, you've got a letter, dear," Pansy suddenly observed, nodding her head at – oh, bugger it all. It was his Mother's owl perched outside, flapping nervously. His name was Grimm, and he was a doddery old thing she'd had since before Draco was born, neurotic and weak-winged – it took him forever to get anywhere. He wondered if he could get away with ignoring it, but then Pansy was crossing the room and letting it in.

"Hello, Grimmsy," she cooed, stroking the feathers on his skull as she tossed the letter across the room to Draco. "Who's a good boy, then? Who's a beautiful boy?"

"Pans, he's ancient, that's like calling Snape a catch." Draco said weakly, instantly regretting his joke when the mention of the man brought a sharp pang to his chest. Turning the letter he held in his hands, he thought for a minute before tossing it high and muttering '_diffindo_' under his breath. The letter ripped to shreds and the pieces fluttered down over him, pale as snow. As much as he loved his mother, he wasn't in the mood for her trite observations on how this could turn his whole life around. In his eyes, he was being put through hell, with very little reward at the end, and that wasn't something he could easily forgive. He would write to her at the end of the week, of course, claim that the letter was damaged by the time Grimm had brought it – a terrible excuse, but he was a good liar.

"Draco..." Blaise said softly, watching him. "Your mother means well, you know that."

"Yeah, and I also know I hate it here already, and I don't want to be putting up with any of this shit at all, Blaise. None of it – none of it helps, none of it's worth anything. This is so_utterly_ pointless, so can you blame me for harbouring a little resentment to the ones putting me through it?"

When he got no answer, Draco got up and left the room, fingers twisting at his sides. He didn't want _any _of this, why hadn't any of them _listened_? He didn't want his NEWTs, didn't want to be here, didn't want to have to go through this stupid rigmarole as if he was any part of this new better generation – he was broken, finished. He should have just been left to his fate. He hurried through the classroom, which was dark and neat once more, past Potter still in the yard, and up the stairs, planning on heading to bed. Then, of course, he_had _to run straight into a sniffling Susan Bones, coming out of the bathroom.

"Oh – Malfoy! What a fright you gave me," she said, one hand plastered on her chest, the other hastily rubbing under her eyes. He said nothing, simply observing her – her red hair was knotted, pulled up in a messy bun, and her blue eyes were watery and puffy, red-rimmed from crying.

"Are you..." he said, then stopped. Why should she answer him? And what place had he to ask? It wasn't as if he particularly cared, in all honestly, but Andromeda had given him a fair few lectures on common courtesy over the summer. Thanks to those and his childhood comportment lessons, he had often found himself jumping into little things like this, asking how people were, when really he didn't actually want to know.

"I'm fine. Are... are you alright?" She asked, then shook her head. "Silly me, you've been looking miserable all day. Not to worry, it's only the first little while – I'm sure we'll get used to it."

"You're being nice to me." Draco said plainly, confused.

"Well, yes, that is what we Hufflepuffs do," she said, indicating her sickly yellow jumper. "I might not like you much, Malfoy, but Merlin, I'm not going to go around spitting curses at you. We've been through a war, after all, nobody needs it. I'm not going to treat you like you're sub-human."

"You _hexed_ Pansy yesterday."

"_Pansy_ was being a cow," Bones said, frowning. "I'd have done the same if it had been Lavender or Lisa, or even Harry, for that matter. For this to work, we're going to need to get along. We need to try."

"You really _are _the poster-child for Hufflepuff." Draco observed, but his chest wasn't so tight anymore. He could almost have smiled as Bones laughed, shaking her head.

"Yeah, maybe I am. Well, I'm a firm believer in the old 'what goes around comes around', and all that – treat people like you want to be treated."

"In that case you're fucked, because Pansy's handy with her hexes. And I'm fucked too, come to think of it..." Draco said, watching as Potter finally moved and entered the kitchen. Bones followed his line of sight, a smile pulling at her full mouth.

"Oh, I don't know. It's never too late. Now, I'm going downstairs for a cup of tea – would you like to join me, or are you going to brood and plot, in true Slytherin style?"

"Brooding I can do, but my plots... Well, they leave a lot to be desired." Draco said, half-smiling himself. Bones smiled again, tugging her sleeves up and heading for the stairs. At the last minute, Draco turned to her.

"Bones? Thank – well, thank you." He muttered. He almost _felt_ it being dragged from somewhere in his stomach, the sentiment he wasn't used to giving, and he felt ill, but the girl didn't notice at all.

"Anytime, Malfoy."

As she descended, however, Draco couldn't help but think how wrong she was. 'It's never too late'?

He might have believed that, before. When he was still young and full of lust for things that proved shadows of what he'd imagined, twisted and wrong. But he couldn't believe it now, not after everything had collapsed inwards. All he could hope for was that he might eventually get through this and begin living out the rest of what was sure to be a _miserable_life in peace.

**A/N: Hello again! Here's chapter two. And yeah, apologies if it's a bit shit, I'm not sure what's going on here, and I'm pretty sure it's not ok to be having filler chapters this early on but whatever, I swear the whole thing won't just be set-up. Thanks to everybody who reviewed, favourited and story alerted - for a first foray into the H/D fandom it actually gave me such a confidence boost that this is actually even just mildly enjoyable. So yeah, thank you all so much, and here's hoping you enjoy this chapter. I'm on holiday, so don't expect a huge wait for the next update, but I can't always promise I'll be so speedy. ANYWAY. Sorry. Enjoy!**


	3. Chapter 3

It didn't take long for the cracks to start to show.

Draco noted that, surprisingly, it was Lisa Turpin who was beginning to go first, with nervous laughter, nails chewed to the quick and hours spent alone in the room she shared with Pansy and Lavender.

"Always the quiet ones," Pansy would remark as she reclined in the garden and soaked up the last of the summer sun, before fixing Draco with one of her looks. He knew she was anxious to find out the root of his change in attitude recently, but he hadn't given her the chance – it had been three weeks now, and he'd spent most of it buried in his books. Pansy was a strange old bird, really – she had a cruel streak a mile wide, and her middle name could have been schadenfreude, but she had an almost primal devotion to those who had earned her love. Draco knew it was only so long before she started asking him for fucking medical information and began asking him if everything was 'regular', such was her interest. Blaise found it all terribly hilarious, as always – but by now, he'd started laughing at things that weren't really funny. The Golden Trio were holding up fairly well, but that was probably because they were just off from a year on the run from a psychotic, murderous megalomaniac, and this must seem like a piece of piss. Finnigan and Brown argued about four times a day, and Susan – the one member of their group not of his house that he had managed to shake calling by their surname - had developed a twitch in her left eye.

Draco was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

* * *

><p>It did, finally, on the darkest, rainiest day they'd seen yet – a Friday, the torrential downpour outside enough to propel everyone but the Gryffindors into staying in after classes finished in the mid-afternoon. Bravely, and rather stereotypically, they had all marched off together in matching red, aiming to explore more of their surroundings than ever. The weather had broken minutes before their departure, but they hadn't been deterred, traipsing off into the rain like idiots. Draco had watched them from the window on the second floor, overlooking the yard; Granger had been hanging on Weasley's arm and laughing as he slipped in the mud, and Brown and Finnigan were pushing at each other in a violent yet friendly manner. Potter had been slouching – terrible posture – with his hands in his pockets, but as he'd turned his face Draco had just made out his smile. He'd given their retreating red backs the finger and gone to bed, with his work already done (mainly as a way of avoiding Pansy, but it had <em>worked<em>, hadn't it?) and his books either finished or boring. Bed had seemed a safe option, and buried under his duvet all alone as Blaise took a shower, he'd found himself proved right. He'd felt almost comfortable for the first time, listening to Blaise sing in Italian and the rain pounding on the window-pane, all alone with nobody to bother him. Draco was almost sleeping, such was his lethargy, and after half an hour he thought he might as well give in and just get up the next day.

But then he'd heard the smash.

It had been a distant, heavy smash – not the smash of a glass, or even a bowl or mug – it sounded like something more drastic. Slowly dragging himself upright, Draco shuddered. He hadn't seen Pansy all day, but he would bet anything that she had something to do with it. He grabbed his wand from the bedside table and shoved it into his pocket, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head (which sounded surprisingly like his father) saying 'That is a very improper way for a wizard of decent caliber to carry a wand.'

He got to the head of the stairs just as Blaise cracked the bathroom door, rubbing at his dark hair with a white, fluffy towel embroidered with an extravagant blue Z.

"Pants flown off the handle?"

"Most probably." Draco replied with a slight laugh at the hideous nickname that had somehow stuck, cracking his fingers. "Join me in damage control?"

"Gladly, give me a minute." Blaise laughed, shutting the door again. Within seconds, he was out and they were walking down the stairs, companionable as Draco found he could only be with Blaise, hips and wrists bumping together in the narrow stairway. "Pansy's a fine looking girl, if you ignore the unfortunate nose, but I swear, I don't know what the fifteen year old me was thinking - I could never have put up with her temper."

When they opened the kitchen door, Draco could only agree. Pansy was standing at one end of the kitchen, hair sticking up all in odd angles and clear blue eyes alight with fury. Her green chiffon blouse was creased, her black pencil skirt twisted, and both shoes were kicked off by the door.

"Merlin and Morgana," Blaise muttered by Draco's side. Opposite Pansy, standing by the aga and looking supremely ruffled was one Susan Bones, wearing her usual scruffy jeans and Hufflepuff jumper. Turpin sat at the top of the table, her blonde hair knotted in her hands as she seemed to try not to cry. Draco looked at the window, in which there was a rather large – and rather new – hole.

"Ok, what on Earth happened?" He demanded of Pansy, who was now drawing in huge, heaving breaths.

"That piss-poor excuse of a girl was-"

"Excuse _me_!" Susan interrupted furiously, hands on hips. "I wasn't doing anything, Draco! I was just here reading my book, and then she-"

"Oh, it's _Draco_, is it?" Pansy spat. "Tell me, _Draco_, when did you become bosom friends with our lovely Hufflepuff here?"

"Stop it, Pans," Draco muttered under his breath. He wouldn't have said he and Susan were 'bosom friends' by any stretch of the imagination, but he liked her well enough – she was kind and good humoured, and would leave him a cup of tea with half a sugar and a slice of lemon every morning before first lesson without being asked. "You're being ridiculous."

"I am not! I thought we were in this together but you'd changed enough and now you're barely speaking to me and you're friends with _her_-"

"For heaven's sake, none of you have actually said what happened!" Blaise interrupted. "And Pansy, play nice and don't be a brat, darling."

To everyone's suprise, it was Lisa Turpin who spoke up. She pushed her hair away from her face roughly, revealing pale, delicate features and a down-turned mouth.

"Basically, I was sitting in here writing that potions essay for Worthington when Susan came in with her book, started making tea-" Draco's eyes found a tea-tray on the counter, and his own special mug and the slice of lemon floating in the liquid didn't go unnoticed. When he flicked his eyes at Susan, however, her features were carefully composed. "Anyway, once tea was done she was just standing by the aga reading her book and then Pansy came in... Well, she grabbed the book and started quoting from it in a silly voice, and..." Turpin trailed off, obviously feeling more like a tattle-tale than ever. "Well, then they started arguing and the book got put through the window. And then you two arrived."

"I see." Blaise said carefully. "And by whom was the book put through the window, pray tell, Lisa?"

"Well, er," She blushed delicately, picking up her forgotten quill and examining it closely. "Me."

Blaise laughed, and something in the tension of the room broke. Well, it did for Blaise and Turpin, who had cracked her first smile in what had to have been days. Susan and Pansy, however, seemed far from finished.

"You know what, Parkinson, I'm not even annoyed at Lisa for throwing the book away, because it must have been hard for her to do so much damage to literature, and she was probably doing her own weird little thing to diffuse the situation. But you... I have been _nothing_ but nice to you."

"You _hexed_ me on the first _fucking_ day!" Pansy scowled, hand twitching to her shirt cuff; probably reaching for her wand, Draco would assume.

"Alright, then _since_ then! I've worked my fucking guts out to try and be nice to everyone here because I want this to work. I want us all to get along, I want the war to be over and for us to be safe here and for us to have something that prejudice and bitterness and hatred can't touch, and it just isn't working. Not if you're going to come in and be snide and take the piss out of decent literature and antagonize people-"

"Stop being such a Hufflepuff and just admit that you hate me," Pansy said harshly. "Admit that you hate Blaise and you only tolerate Turpin because she's quiet. I don't presume to know what you're doing in attempting to forge a friendship with Draco, but it will probably be fruitless. Stop applying your rules of loyalty and friendship to people who don't operate in the same way, Bones, and you'll see that it can't be done."

"What can't?" Susan demanded. "You being nice?"

"No, Slytherins and Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws being friends. Getting along. Working together. I can be _very_ nice. I just choose not to, because I don't particularly feel any of you are worth much of my time."

"You're such a cow," a sudden voice interrupted from the doorway. Everyone turned to see a sopping, gloomy looking Lavender Brown, her hair slicked into dark, heavy rats' tails by the rain. "Why are you such a cow, Parkinson? We've never done anything to you, have we?"

"You didn't have to," Pansy sniffed, turning up her indelicate nose as the others traipsed in, tracking mud all over the floor. "I don't like you anyway."

"Oh, _fuck_ off," Brown snapped, pushing roughly at Pansy – who stumbled, pitching backwards into the wall by the window. And Draco knew what would happen before it did.

Pansy _flew_, catching a handful of Lavender's hair before anyone really had the chance to blink and slamming her up against the door, which gave way under the weight. Both girls tumbled into the yard, screeching and scrabbling in the mud while simultaneously trying to inflict as much damage as possible.

"You go Draco, I'm not getting involved," Blaise said, leaning back with his elbows on the counter. Turpin looked stricken and Susan looked furious at the fact the evening had devolved into such madness. Weasley and Finnigan, however, found it hilarious, while Potter and Granger looked horrified.

"For fuck's sake," Draco muttered under his breath, pulling his shirt sleeves down over his fingers and marching out into the yard.

The rain hit him all at once like a sheet of ice, drenching him in seconds. The ghastly ginger cat that Granger had brought along – Crookshanks, maybe, though he didn't care for it or its name – was watching from the sitting room window, tail flicking amusedly. Draco frowned at it before turning back to the scene and hand, which was rapidly devolving into what could only be described as sheer and utter lunacy. Pansy was smaller than her counterpart by at least a foot, but for the last few weeks had been stretched like the strings of a violin. Now that she'd finally snapped, there was no telling how the fight would come out. Catching her arms before she managed to get Brown in the face – _again_ – Draco hauled Pansy to his chest, wheeling her around. Her foot smacked off the window-frame and then the wall as she screeched at him, before biting deep into the skin of his left hand. When he dropped her, she slapped him around the face with such force that he staggered.

"Piss off, Draco! Unless you're on my side, you can just go!" She said, voice high. Everything about her expression and the shine in her eyes screamed _traitor, _and Brown had struggled to her feet, looking less than grateful for Draco's intervention. His hand had started to bleed; which really was the final straw.

"Oh, you know what? Fuck all of you!" He bellowed, turning on his heel and marching out onto the moor.

* * *

><p>Harry watched Malfoy leave through the open door, eyes wide, as Lisa struggled from her seat and into the yard to help Lavender in.<p>

"Isn't anyone going to do anything about the window?" Hermione demanded, and when nobody reacted, she shook her head and cast a hasty _Reparo_ in the direction of the window above the sink. Some of the noise from outside died down almost immediately, and it seemed to take a lot of the wind out of the atmosphere, too. A bedraggled Parkinson skittered around the table and straight up the stairs, tracking mud in behind her, not even bothering to say anything else inflammatory.

"Jesus, she's got _tiny _feet," Ron observed absently, casting an eye over the footprints she'd left.

"She might be small but she's a scary woman," Zabini informed them all, standing up with more grace than Harry had ever seen in someone of the male persuasion. "Don't underestimate things that come in small packages."

"I learned that lesson with Hermione," Ron said, and while he didn't sound particularly friendly, his tone didn't have the barbed nature it usually held when he was speaking to Malfoy or his sneaky, feisty female counterpart. Hermione huffed, but Zabini smirked and inclined his head.

"And a wise lesson learned. I'd better go and calm Pants down, she'll be having a conniption to herself. _Arrividerci, _all."

"Do you think Malfoy'll be alright? I didn't expect, well... I don't think any of us expected that." Lisa said worriedly from the door, where she was hovering as if uncertain of what to do.

"Bloody well hope not, hope he gets eaten by a big moor monster." Lavender muttered darkly as she squeezed mud out of her hair, although she held up both hands in defeat when Lisa stared and Susan squawked indignantly. "Right, sorry. I know I should be grateful because he stopped the she-devil from bashing my brains in, but _really_, it's not as if he makes much effort otherwise, is it?"

"He doesn't know how." Susan said absently, then straightened her shoulders. "Poor git. I'm going after him."

"Don't be stupid, Suze, he'll come back once he's finished being a drama queen." Seamus scoffed, rubbing his hands together and crossing to fill their bright red tin kettle at the sink. "I wouldn't bother going out in that downpour, not for all the tea in bloody china."

"Seamus, are you a sixty year old fucking woman?" Susan demanded. "Somebody has to go after him! It's pitch black and he's barely left the house before, he won't know arsehole from elbow."

"I'll go," Somebody said, and it wasn't until he saw the others staring that Harry realised it had been him. He swallowed dryly, as the others either shook their head or rolled their eyes.

"You?" Ron asked, his tone of voice and expression very clearly saying what his words didn't: _have you gone fucking mad? _"Harry, don't be stupid."

"He's right," Hermione said fretfully, gathering together mugs from the cupboard and aligning them by the range, where the kettle was slowly boiling. "You'll catch death, Harry, going back out in that. I wouldn't advise it."

"_And _he'll probably just kick off at you," Lavender chipped in. "And you won't achieve anything. Honestly, Harry, just leave the flouncy git alone."

"Susan's right, somebody needs to go after him. And I'm not afraid of him, worst comes to worst I can -"

"What, get in a fight with him? Harry, kick your brain in gear for one bloody minute!" Ron said exasperatedly, standing up and shaking his head. Raindrops flew off in every direction, and Harry wrinkled his nose. He wasn't much looking forward to going back out in the bad weather, but now that the others had made such a fuss he was determined. He was going after Malfoy. While the others had been discussing all of the reasons he shouldn't go, he'd formulated a few why he should. For one, Susan shouldn't go traipsing off on the moors alone in weather like this, but secondly, Malfoy's behaviour recently - burying himself in books and rarely leaving his room, staying silent and moody-looking - had piqued Harry's curiosity to say the least. Going after him now would give Harry a chance to see him close at hand and try and gather some clues as to why he'd been acting so strangely. Ignoring the voice in his head that told him he was reverting to his amateur spy sixteen year old self, Harry straightened his shoulders and checked that his wand was in his pocket, where he'd left it. Susan came back in the kitchen door, a yellow knitted hat on her head and her navy duffle coat buttoned firmly over her jumper and jeans.

"Ready?" Harry asked, and she nodded, face set in grim determination. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>Sloshing through muddy puddles in the driving rain almost an hour later, however, Harry was starting to wonder why he'd bothered. No amount of curiosity towards Malfoy was worth the bone-numbing chill creeping through his body, or the water soaking through his socks. Susan was looking miserable, hat limp above her ears as she slipped and stumbled for at least the ninth time.<p>

"We can go back, if you want," Harry called. He'd crested the hill long before her, and was now looking across the moors to Danby and beyond. In sunny weather, the moors were something to behold, but this was when they truly came into their own. The storm and the wind had given the landscape something atmospheric and almost unnerving – the tree next to Harry was creaking and groaning in a manner reminiscent to the Whomping Willow, and all of the other trees he could see were blown almost parallel to the ground. The sky, while black above their heads, was a purplish-blue closer to the house, and even further than that a pale, dusky pink – obviously the clouds were moving. The smell of grass was fresh everywhere, and if it hadn't been raining – and he'd thought to conjure or transfigure some welly boots – Harry would have been happy to be somewhere there was such a strong force of nature.

"No!" Susan called, as she managed to pull herself up next to him on top of the hill. "Draco's my friend. I'm out here looking for him, and look I shall until he's found."

Seeming to steel herself, Susan edged over the top of the hill and grabbed hold of the tree, looking down. It was a much steeper drop on this side, maybe too steep to climb down, towards an uneven expanse of grass and rock. Sighing, Susan grabbed a low branch and eased herself downwards. She then made the mistake of letting go, and Harry watched her tumble all the way to the foot of the hill, swearing the whole way down. When he managed to finish laughing, he scrambled down awkwardly – though thankfully on two legs – to help her up.

"So," he started, as they began to march off. "You and Mal- er, Draco... are friends?"

"Everyone acts like it's a sign of the four horsemen," Susan scoffed, though she looked down and carefully lifted her foot over a fallen branch instead of looking at Harry. "Yes, we're friends. Maybe not close, and maybe not the kind of friend either of us wants, but we... Well, we settle, I suppose."

"How did that even come _about_?" Harry asked incredulously. He knew Susan was a Hufflepuff, and so was fairly sure that she was happy to be friends with anyone, but she was also clever and he had always assumed she had good judgment; at least, she had never proved otherwise. So how on _earth_ had she fallen in with Malfoy?"

"Well, he caught me crying one day... And he was quite nice about it, before you start. I made him a cup of tea the next morning, and I sort of judged it by Hannah's tea, because that's the one thing she's a big old fuss-pot about, and I figured Draco would be the same. He was amazed that I'd gotten it right, really, and we ended up talking. And since then, I make him tea in the mornings and we'll talk then, before everyone gets up, and after class. He has good taste in books."

"He... wow, you're really serious, aren't you?"

Susan simply gave an exasperated groan and sped up. Harry shook his head and carried on after her. Draco Malfoy, an ex Death Eater, infantile bully and elitist pain in the arse, had 'good taste in books' and drank tea like a debutante. It figured. Lost in thought, Harry's walking slowed until he was barely at a lazy amble, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold.

"Hey, Harry, look!" Susan called. He hadn't realised how far behind he'd fallen, and Susan was up ahead, standing underneath a rocky outcrop. A rocky outcrop on which there was a cave, although cave was really the wrong word; an old tree with bent branches formed a roof with its leaves, and a few gorse bushes made a rough wall along one side, with a plot of trees just behind. And, water-drenched glasses aside, Harry was sure he could see a flash of white blonde hair somewhere in the shadows. Susan was struggling to climb by the time he got there, and she turned, contemplative, before giving him a grin.

"C'mon then, give me a leg up."

"And then how will _I_ get up?"

"Are you going to know what to say to him if he's upset?"

"No, I – wait, upset? What are you -"

"Thought not. Leg up please, Harry, toot sweet."

Grumbling to himself, Harry knotted his fingers together and gave Susan's dangling foot a boost. She managed to grab hold of the ledge on the second try and pull herself up, and Harry scrambled up after her, grabbing hold of anything he could to get purchase on the slippery rock. Grazed fingertips and ripped jeans he may have had, but he'd made it up. Just. Malfoy was sitting about five feet away, knees drawn up with his arms wrapped tight around them. He tilted his head.

"Should have known you'd bring Wonder Boy, Susan."

"I offered to come first, actually," Harry bristled, as Susan opened and shut her mouth. "So don't go jumping to any conclusions."

"And I should be so grateful that you're my rescuer?" Malfoy sneered, turning his face away. "No thanks. I don't want to come back anyway, so you've wasted your time."

"Oh, no you don't," Susan gritted her teeth and knelt to grab at Malfoy's wrist. "Draco, come on. This is stupid-"

"Fuck off, Susan." Draco spat, dragging his arm out of the girl's reach. "I don't want to – just leave me alone, alright?"

As Susan sat back, dejected but unmoving, Harry watched Malfoy fidgeting with his left sleeve. Today, Malfoy had worn white, which Harry observed was a rarity in itself; it was the usual dress shirt, however, and the fabric had been soaked to transparency. Malfoy's Dark Mark shone through clear as day, no longer black but the angry red of a scar, seeming far too large for his oddly slim body. Harry's stomach turned and he felt sick, all of a sudden, faced with this stark reminder of everything this boy used to, or might still have (albeit quietly) stood for. Curiosity or not, why had Harry _ever _thought coming after Malfoy was a good idea? He was clearly just the same as always – brattish and unable to listen to reason. He just knew how to hide it now.

Susan, however, didn't let it deter her from trying.

"Alright, Mr, I've had enough of your attitude. You're going to come home with me." She said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

And yet...

"Susan, I _said_, I'm not coming home with you and Potty, alright? Leave me be, Ginger Nut."

Harry's mouth fell open at the blatant insult – hadn't Susan said, not half an hour before, that she and Malfoy were friends? But then again, she didn't look hurt or offended – rather exasperatedly amused.

"Alright, Posh Twat. At least you're alive." She straightened, head bowed so it didn't brush against the leafy ceiling, and stuffed her hands in her pockets. "You're certain you won't come back with us?"

"Quite certain. Now take Scarhead and piss off."

"I am still _here_, you know," Harry said annoyedly, wheeling away and beginning the careful descent to the ground again.

"Yes, I was aware," he heard Malfoy drawl. "I still believe, however, that you lack the mental capacity suitable for conversation."

"Oh, get lost!" Harry called upwards, by far more fed up than he'd expected at traipsing all this way for nothing.

"All you are doing is proving my point!" Malfoy called back as Susan peered over the top of the outcrop and gave Harry a look of intense disappointment.

Well, she could fuck off too, then.

* * *

><p>"Harry?"<p>

He spun around, alarmed at the sudden noise – he'd gotten home to find the kitchen empty and dark; further investigation showed him Lisa had fallen asleep on the couch in the sitting room, and Pansy was sitting on the floor by the window looking worried as she watched for the return of Malfoy. She'd given him the two-fingered salute, though, and that had been his hint to leave. He'd assumed everybody had gone upstairs to study or to sleep – it wasn't as if there was anything else to do here, and Harry often found himself turning to sleep for something to pass the time, despite the unpleasant dreams he still sometimes had. Upstairs had been silent, at first, and Harry's suspicions had seemed confirmed. Hermione, however, had stuck her head around her bedroom door as soon as she'd heard the first creak of the top step.

"Bloody hell, Hermione!"

"Sorry," she said bashfully, pushing the door further open and leaning against it. "I worry for my future children if they ever sneak out."

"Yeah, you've got the protective mother act down pat." Harry tried to joke, but in truth, his blood was still boiling – unlike any other part of his body. Most of him was numb, and the parts that weren't declared loudly that they would very much _like_ to be.

"So where are Malfoy and Susan?" Hermione asked as she stepped back into the room. Surprise, surprise; Ron was splayed out on the floor, chewing on the end of a Sugar Quill as he struggled through this week's Muggle Studies assignment. Muggle Studies, Harry had not been surprised to find, was a compulsory subject – and an amusing one, as he watched Ron and the other pure-bloods struggle.

"Harry," Ron asked now, scratching behind his ear. "What's a compact disc again?"

"It's a little disc-shaped thing that plays music when you put it in a CD player. You're probably best to use the word optical to describe it, though," Hermione interrupted, setting herself down on her neatly made bed before Harry could even speak. As he sat down on the floor by the doorway, he had to admit that the room was much more pleasant than he and the others' – smaller, certainly, but Susan had pinned fairy lights around the shelves above their beds, and there were candles and even a little bookshelf. The fact that there was only one small window between the beds just seemed to make the room cosier. "Harry?"

"Mm?"

"Are you going to stop admiring the décor and answer my question about where Susan and Malfoy are?"

"Oh, Malfoy wouldn't come back," Harry said simply. "So Susan stayed and I came home."

"And that's all there was to it?" Hermione arched her eyebrow, crossing her arms and ankles at the same time. Crookshanks butted at the door with his head and slinked through the gap, leaping up onto the bed next to Hermione and purring contentedly when she unfolded herself to tickle him behind the ears. "You're sure no terse words were exchanged? No wands drawn or punches thrown?"

"Well, I don't know about terse words, but I didn't draw my wand," Harry grumbled, turning his face away to pick at the torn knee of his jeans. "And neither did he."

"More's the pity," Ron said as he sat up and stretched, pushing his work away from him. "I mean, you not drawing your wand. God knows the prat needs a good hex to shock the massive stick out of that bony arse."

Hermione wrinkled her nose and shook her head at her boyfriend, but a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

"Oh, I don't know," she mused, sitting back against the wall and hefting the not inconsiderably sized cat into her lap. "He doesn't seem so unbearable as he did in school. Hasn't called me Mudblood once."

"He hasn't _spoken_ to you once," Ron corrected, scrambling up on to the bed. "Bloody git."

Harry laughed, and the others smiled, and he began to feel himself calm. There had never been anything better, before the war or after, than sitting with his best friends in the world and talking until every problem seemed small and life seemed bearable again.

"Anyway, Harry, it was rather nice of you to go after him, even though you have a terrible history with him. I'm assuming that Malfoy didn't see it that way, which makes the fact that you are dripping all over the place, shivering and covering my lovely waxed floor with mud _all _the more frustrating, doesn't it?" Hermione smiled, and Harry laughed, though wondered all the same when she'd developed such a sharp sense of humour. Clearly, sharing a room with their resident spitfire Hufflepuff was doing her no favours.

Or many, depending on which way you looked at it.

"Alright, I get the hint," Harry grinned, struggling up from the floor and kissing Hermione on the forehead. "I'll get off and have myself a bath, then. Stop ruining your floor, and all that."

"Yeah, and while you're at it, hands off my girlfriend," Ron laughed, slinging an arm around Hermione's shoulder and pulling her mock-possessively towards his chest. "Aren't you meant to be after my sister, anyway?"

"Well, quite frankly, that remains to be seen," Harry said shortly. Ron grimaced.

"She still not replied to your last owl?" He asked, as Hermione turned to him again, a cleft between her neat eyebrows.

"No," Harry said. After Ginny had written back last time, informing him that he would see neither hide nor hair of her until October, he replied suggesting that maybe they could talk over a few of the less serious things by owl. He'd mentioned that he very much missed her, and that he was hopeful that things could work out, and that being able to have important conversations with her was something he really wanted - and he'd gotten a big fat nothing in return. And that had been more than two weeks ago. Ron's new owl - now named Echo by an insistent Hermione - had returned despondent, clicking her beak in a manner reminiscent of Hedwig as she'd shown him her empty leg. "I'm not holding out much hope, really. Looks like she's saving what she's got to say for October."

"Sorry, mate," Ron winced. "You'd think growing up with boys would have given her a better understanding of them."

"Oh, I don't know," Hermione said sadly, picking up the book at the end of her bed and tracing the title on the cover. "I think maybe she understands more than you two do."

Harry frowned, Ron wrinkled his nose, and both of them shrugged at exactly the same time.

"_Boys._" Hermione muttered, and then she said no more.

* * *

><p>After that, Harry had given up. He'd gone and drawn himself a hot bath, because he was still freezing from his pointless traipsing after Malfoy, and he'd rather missed out on the luxury of baths because of not being a bloody Prefect, so he was damned if he wasn't going to enjoy it now. He'd sunk beneath warm, bubbly water and tried very hard not to think of anything, which was not as easy as he had hoped. He had absolutely no idea what Hermione had meant about Ginny understanding more than he or Ron did - she hadn't fucking <em>spoken<em> to either of them, had she? How _could_ she understand?

Women were all mad, Harry thought bitterly, turning the ornate cold water tap on and off with his toes. All of them, completely.

And _Malfoy _- what the bloody hell was he up to? All the silence and seclusion; every time he was seen out of his bed he had his nose buried in a book or was muttering quietly to his Slytherin housemates, constantly looking irate - or even more commonly, he was alone with his lower lip petted out. But Harry had been used to irate Malfoy meaning the Malfoy he was used to, the one who insulted everyone in range and gave people dirty looks and made horrendous, appalling comments - where had that version of the boy gone? Not that Harry was really complaining, because it made a nice change _not _to want to beat the shit out of a person every ten seconds, but it was new, and most of all confusing.

Dunking his head under the water and holding his breath for as long as he could, Harry was not exactly in a position to hear the door slam open.

"Oi!" Susan called, and Harry splashed up, infinitely thankful for all of the bubbles. Oh, and joy of _all_ joys; Malfoy was hovering in the doorway, staring sullenly at the floor. "You've been in here forever, you know, you're not the only one covered in mud."

"I'm well bloody aware, Susan, and thank you for apologizing for barging in on me." Harry said, resolving to shower in the yard using Aguamenti if he was to have this little luck with bathrooms.

"You're welcome." She smiled winningly. "Now, Draco has something to say."

"Sorry," the blond boy spat as if on cue. "For apparently being an arsehole, though I don't see that I was."

"Right." Harry said stiffly, not sure what else to expect.

"And what else, Draco?" Susan said, examining her nails carefully. Well, at least she wasn't interested in Harry's nakedness; he didn't think he could take it.

"And Carrot Top here has decided that what we all need is a trip to the pub in Danby to cure our animosity." His eyes flicked up to Harry's and then away again - he had to admit, eye contact with your nemesis while in a bubble bath wasn't exactly comfortable. "I don't think alcohol is the right way to go about it because I see no way I can get on with any of you and any form of spirit turns Pansy into a murderous harpy, but our lady here will not be deterred. Therefore we hope you'll tell all your side of the group about it and we can all go and get drunk, and prove ourselves to be completely unreasonable people and spend the rest of the year avoiding each other as nature intended."

"Done. Now can you both bloody _get out_?" Harry said, well and truly at the end of his tether. Malfoy turned tail and almost ran, and Harry allowed himself a fleeting smile; for all of the other boy's projection of coolness and calm, he had clearly inwardly been rather flustered. Susan, however, got up slowly and fixed him with a glare.

"Five minutes, Harry. I think I've got mud in my bra and I'd appreciate a shower in the near future."

With that, she left, and Harry let himself slide under the water again, feeling unaccountably frustrated with how the day had panned out, not to mention - well, had Susan _really _had to mention her bra? He made an immediate resolution to leave and make himself a hermit as soon as he could, or, conversely, ask Hermione to help him understand the entire rest of the human race - but in the meantime, he supposed, he had better get out of the bath.

* * *

><p><strong>Good grief, really?<strong>

**First of all, I'm so sorry this update is late. I was planning on having a summer of writing, but then summer happened and it turned out to be a summer of nothing. And drinking. And falling down numerous stairs. And more drinking. **

**Yes, well, that's all very well and good I suppose, but I've neglected all the lovely followers of this story! :( I've been a terrible author. I also know that this update isn't anywhere near as good as it should be for the wait you've had for it, but at least it is longer and I've tried to make it funny. I would have had it published maybe two weeks ago but my internet was buggered AND I WAS EVEN IN HOSPITAL ON MONDAY but I was fine and NOW I've moved back to Glasgow for second year of University. Rest assured though that now this chapter is out of the way and I'm back you'll probably get an update sometime in the next millenia.**

**Maybe.**

**Big big love to CaramelAriana, Alea Carter, swan-scones, columcille - tried to get a bit of moor in there for you! - and Anonymously Awesome for their reviews. Means the world. Enjoy!**

**_Cherry _**


	4. Chapter 4

"Pansy, for fuck's sake, what are you doing in there? Conducting a fucking opera?"

Draco looked up from where he was perched on the counter to the bathroom door, which was beginning to rattle in its frame from how hard Blaise was pounding it.

"Don't you think you should answer that?" He asked, looking over at Pansy. She was standing in front of the mirror, eyeliner pencil held gracefully in one hand as she squinted through the smoke from the cigarette in her mouth.

"No, I don't," she mumbled simply, before offering him the cigarette. He took it, placing the damp filter between his lips – he didn't often smoke, but he had a feeling that tonight he was going to need it. The week had been long enough, and it wasn't as if relations had improved any. If anything, they'd gotten worse, because now that Pansy and Brown had fought, the floodgates had opened and every petty little argument was suddenly a cause for a humongous uproar. Draco longed to take his mother's approach from when he'd been a child, which was to knock the heads of those who were arguing against each other and have done, but he had a feeling not even that would have helped. He felt so unaccountably frustrated, sometimes, and full of temper and mood swings. And now they were all going out to get drunk together, and it all did not bode well -

"PANSY!"

"Not listening, not listening..." She hummed to herself, while Draco stubbed the cigarette out in the sink and folded his arms. Pansy raised her voice, setting down the eyeliner and reaching for the mascara wand. "Blaise, if you need to shit that badly, darling, there's a perfectly good thicket of bushes just outside the yard!"

Draco snorted as he heard their friend curse and storm away, slamming the door to their bedroom down the hall. Pansy _had _been extra-antagonistic over the last week, but when it wasn't directed at him, he couldn't say it didn't still amuse him like it always had.

"You really shouldn't piss him off like that, you know," Draco admonished as she put the finishing touches to her face. "We need everybody we can get on side tonight."

"Do we bollocks, Draco," Pansy smirked, but it was only then that he noticed her hands shaking ever so very slightly. "You're just saying that because you want me to be friends with your precious _Susan, _aren't you? Not going to work. Now tell me, how do I look?"

He surveyed her from head to toe, biting the inside of his lower lip. Perfectly smoothed bob, check. Feline eye-makeup, porcelain skin, high colour on her cheeks and lips, check. Black, longsleeved cocktail dress with a plunging neckline which reached to her sternum, silver serpent pendant, sygnet ring bearing the family crest on her right hand, hold ups, black knee high boots...

"Very nice, but is there any particular reason you've dressed like the ultimate Slytherin hell-child?"

"Is there anything else to be?" Pansy demanded brusquely, picking up her things and stuffing them back into her cosmetics case. A lipstick rolled away from her manicured fingertips, and then a blusher, which smashed and scattered coral pink over the black and white flagstones, and she tried to catch them, which only resulted in carnage for the things clutched in her other hand.

"Pansy, calm down -"

"I am _calm_, Draco!" She barked, before pressing a hand to her forehead and closing her eyes. "I am _calm_."

"You don't need to be nervous, for God's sake, we're only going to the pub, there's no need to try and impress everyone -"

"For _fuck's _sake, shut up!" Pansy suddenly snapped, throwing out a hand and shoving him backwards roughly, so that he almost fell into the toilet. She folded herself hastily down onto the floor, trying to pick up her scattered cosmetics and only suceeding in sending them to all for corners of the room. "I don't need you _fucking_ patronising me! Don't talk to me about nervousness, because you're just as nervous as me, you've been clinging to me like you cling to your mother's fucking apron strings all day and it's driving me _mad_, Draco! I'm _not_trying to impress anyone, alright, if I was I'd look a lot fucking better than this mess, but if people expect the worst then why go out of your way to raise their estimation – because with people like Granger, and Brown, and fucking _Turpin _sitting there all quietly judging everyone from behind a fucking book, alright, you never can change their opinion so why not just live up to what they expect? And this is who I _am_, Draco, you might have come over all Hufflepuff all of a sudden and want to slide right back in with the 'good guys' – only understandable, fuck knows you've got a _lot_ of ground to make up, but _Jesus _Christ, I thought you understood that this is all I know how to be?"

Draco stared at her, feeling slightly hollow. It wasn't as if Pansy had never reprimanded him before; in the absence of his mother, she was the next best thing - a sister and a best friend all rolled into one slightly older, slightly wiser and more sarcastic package. But today wasn't exactly the best time for her to come over all dragon-tyrant-bitch, and he was about to tell her so, when -

Pansy was crying. She'd pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and turned her face away, small white teeth digging into her lower lip as she let out little gasps, like an animal in a trap. He dropped to his knees next to her, getting coral-coloured powder all over his tailored trousers – well, it wasn't as if he didn't have a wand to clean them off with. It wasn't often you saw Pansy cry, after all, and he couldn't help but somehow feel it was his fault – then again, a skirmish with Pansy usually left one feeling that way. He dithered awkwardly for a minute, hand hovering above her shoulder, before finally deciding to get it over with and throw an arm round her.

"Pans, don't. Look, I'm sorry, alright? Pansy, _please_, I'm sorry."

"Fuck off," she mumbled into her hands. "If you're really sorry, pass me a fucking tissue."

Scrambling backwards, Draco hastily yanked almost the entire roll of toilet tissue towards him, tugging at it and hurling it back towards Pansy, who tried – and failed – to catch it in one hand. She glared at him, lips in a tight, thin line, but it was impossible not to laugh when she had a loop of toilet roll draped around one ear.

"Draco, I swear to Merlin, I will kill you without so much as a blink if you do not stop laughing at me _right fucking now_." Pansy glared, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the smeared eye-makeup and tousled hair she was now sporting. Nevertheless, she was still frightening, and in an attempt to appease her he unhooked the toilet roll from her ear and began to carefully wipe just under her lower lash line, gently enough that the sub-standard two-ply tissue wouldn't drag on her skin. Some of her unhappy expression smoothed out and then her clenched fists unfurled, and Draco felt that at least comforting Pansy was one thing he sometimes managed to do alright at.

"I'm sorry," he said again, quieter this time, setting aside the tissue and using the pads of his thumbs to sweep away the last of the mascara on Pansy's cheeks. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just meant – well, it isn't like you to put so much effort in usually if you're not going to get something out of it."

"Excuse me," Pansy muttered, though a smile was tugging at the corners of her lips. "I never leave my room looking less than a thousand galleons."

"Alright, true enough," Draco said, smiling himself. "But you can never usually _tell _you're making so much of an effort – oh, I'm fucking it all up, aren't I?"

"And people say you're good with words." Pansy snorted, though she reached out and brushed a lock of white-blond hair out of his eyes, and Draco knew he was forgiven. "Look, it's alright. I know what you mean. And I suppose... Ugh, I suppose I am a bit nervous."

"A bit." Draco repeated, standing up and helping Pansy to do the same. He drew his wand, siphoning off the powder stains on his knees and then moving on to the floor. Pansy had let the tip of her own wand peek out from the cuff of her dress, which explained why all of the miscellaneous makeup dotted around was suddenly flying back into position of its own accord.

"Yes, just a bit. Don't push it." Pansy smiled weakly, turning once again to check her reflection. "Damn it, Draco, I look a right sorry state."

"Nonsense," he said smoothly, placing his hands on her shoulders and smiling at their reflection. Dressed in dark clothes as they were, they looked almost a perfect match. Sometimes he could see why people thought they were a couple – light and dark, tall and small, and yet their features and bearings just seemed to fit together inexplicably. Not that they ever had been romantically entangled, of course – one dreadful kiss after the Yule Ball had put paid to that. They held hands often, or Pansy played with his hair, but Pansy liked to touch and Draco liked to _be _touched. It was nothing more than that. Still, he had to say that if he could walk into a high society event with any girl on his arm, it would be Pansy. He was filled with such a warm, sudden – and, truth be told, highly surprising - rush of affection that he dropped a kiss on the top of her head. She rolled her eyes, which _wasn't _a surprise.

"Bugger off, arsehole, you're not out of the woods yet, and nobody likes a suck up. Do you think I've time to re-do my face?"

"PANSY FOR FUCK'S SAKE, THEY'RE GOING TO LEAVE WITHOUT US – IS THAT FUCKING PRAT DRACO IN THERE WITH YOU?"

At Blaise's sudden shout, both of them jumped, then burst out laughing.

"I suppose not."

* * *

><p>Harry sat in front of the fireplace, hands extended to the dying embers – even through his gloves, his fingers still felt frozen to the bone. Hermione was pacing anxiously behind him, dressed in sensible shoes, a winter coat and wooly hat, scarf, and mittens, muttering to herself about whether or not this was a good idea. Eventually Ron gave up and yanked her down into his lap where he was sitting in the armchair at Harry's side, tucking a wayward lock of frizzy brown hair behind her ear.<p>

"Will you calm down, woman?" He said, and Harry didn't have to look at him to hear the smile. "For once, can you let somebody else do the worrying?"

"Well, it's just -"

"Ron's right, Hermione," Harry said, turning to face them. "This isn't a plan you came up with that you can take responsibility for. We're just a group of friends - or, er, maybe not friends - just a group of young people out to try and relax a bit, alright? No need to turn it into some sort of therapy session or anything."

He extended a hand and took hers briefly, earning himself a weak smile in return. Harry didn't blame her for being on edge about it all – truth be told, he wasn't all that comfortable about it either. He'd never been drunk in his life, and if he got drunk tonight, if _anyone _got drunk tonight, he didn't doubt things would go wrong. Lavender was standing by the window trying to catch the very last of the fading light filtering in through the back window, working with Susan and a bottle of heavy, gluey looking make-up to cover her scars. Lisa wasn't reading, for a change, but was checking and double-checking that everything was turned off, while Seamus sat alone on the arm of the couch, shuffling a deck of cards. Harry could almost kid himself that things were peaceful and right; at least, he could until a mightily disgruntled Blaise Zabini threw himself through the door, silk scarf knotted rakishly around the long, dark column of his throat.

"Those two fuckers will be down in a minute. Sorry, everyone," he said, though he sounded more sorry for himself. "I hate to delay our drunken revelry."

Even as he spoke, Malfoy and Parkinson appeared behind him. Parkinson had her small, bony hand tucked into the crook of Malfoy's equally bony arm, and together they looked like a spread from one of Lavender's glossy fashion magazines, and therefore Harry hated them even more on sight for being ridiculous. This was Yorkshire, not New York, after all.

"Glad you finally decided to grace us with your presence," Lavender said coolly, discreetly slipping the tube of make up into her handbag but pulling her hair over her neck anyway.

"Fuck off, Brown," Parkinson said with a winning smile. The glance Malfoy threw her was half-exasperated and half-amused. Clearly no help would come from him, then.

"That's enough," Harry said sharply. "We don't need you being a bitch to make this any worse than it's going to be, so shut your stupid, vile mouth if you're not going to be civil."

"Don't you _dare_ talk to her like that, Potter, you _bastard_," Malfoy said, starting forward, but Parkinson's hand on his arm held him back. She seemed to be trying to soothe him, and it admittedly worked, her small fingers drawing circles on the skin of the inside of his right arm putting his breathing back in check and taking some of the high colour from his cheeks.

"It's alright, Draco, he isn't worth it," she mumbled with a quick smile for her – friend? Boyfriend? Oh, who knew with bloody Slytherins - and this time only Hermione's hand on his shoulder stopped Harry from leaping to his feet. Not worth it? He shouldn't be surprised, she'd clearly thought his _life_ was worth less than hers when she'd suggested packing him off to Voldemort, but it still rankled.

"Alright, everyone," Susan said, and you could barely hear the nerves in her voice over the tone of annoyance. "I've absolutely had it up to here with this. Wands, please."

Everybody stared.

She had extended her rucksack in front of her, a baggy, floral patterned thing with a tight drawstring at the top.

"Er, excuse me, Suze," Ron said carefully. Almost everyone had adopted the nickname for Susan, who was far and away making the most progress with becoming friends with – well, almost everyone. "Are you really expecting us to-"

"She's right, Ron, come on," Hermione said hastily, taking a few steps forward and practically throwing her wand into the bag. "We're going to be in a Muggle environment and – and it's probably best if we're not armed."

"Armed?" Seamus spluttered laughingly, as he handed Lavender her coat. "We're going to a pub, not a fucking battle field."

"We shall see," Hermione said primly, and then glanced at Harry and Malfoy with more than a little reproach before snatching Ron's wand from his back pocket in an unexpected move and throwing it into Susan's bag. "Come along, everyone."

* * *

><p>Some time later, Harry decided that terrible evening or not, it was worth the journey and seeing Malfoy fall face first in the mud – several times. He was now picking himself up again, while Parkinson and Zabini refused to help on the principle that his hands were dirty. On hands and knees, he raised one wrist to push white-blond hair away from his face, before Susan eventually took pity on him and yanked him up by the back of his black wool jacket.<p>

"Thank you," he muttered, though Harry didn't think he sounded very thankful. Susan didn't seem to mind, patting his arm before sauntering onward, well prepared in tough leather walking boots. She caught up with Lisa, Seamus and Lavender, the four of them framed against the almost violent purple-blue of the early evening sky. The light caught the end of Lavender's hair as Seamus grabbed her and tried – unsuccessfuly and unsuprisingly – to toss her into a puddle, and Harry couldn't help the small smile that formed. He saw Ron's eyes drift to Hermione, and Hermione smiled too.

"Don't even think about it, Ronald. I'd have _you _in the puddle before you could blink – wand or no wand, girl or no girl."

"How do you reckon that is, then?" Ron grinned, slinging a comfortable arm around her shoulders. Harry made to drift off, but Hermione stuck out her own arm and linked it with Harry's, drawing them all together.

"Well, mainly because I'm a quick thinker and I'd be able to suss out your weak point and a way to overpower you, but also because Harry would help me, wouldn't you Harry?"

"Oh, definitely," he laughed, grinning at Ron over Hermione's head.

"Some best friend," Ron said without malice, even chortling a little as Malfoy tried to stalk around them and slipped again, pinwheeling his arms wildly. Zabini caught him, placing sure hands on his shoulderblades and sliding them up, his palms lingering on Malfoy's shoulders. The blond turned and smiled his thanks, his face so unguarded for a moment that Harry was actually startled. It was rare, really, to see Malfoy with any warmth in his eyes at all, and Zabini gave his friend an easy grin before pecking his cheek and making to walk on again.

"Bloody Slytherins," Ron muttered, not-quite-under his breath. "Never know who they're sleeping with – strumpets, the lot of them."

Malfoy whipped his head round and glared, as did Zabini – who then grabbed Malfoy's hand and pulled him forward, their fingers laced tightly together.

"Well, I bet Draco's a better shag than your Gryffindor prude, anyway," He called viciously over his shoulder, before cresting the hill and disappearing from sight. Ron's ears were slowly turning puce, and Hermione's lip was wobbling dangerously. Harry was about to say something when Parkinson whirled in front of them, a cruel grin playing around her rosebud mouth as she tucked her hair behind her ear.

"A quick tip for you little Gryffintwats," she said, sucking the last of her cigarette down to the filter, the end burning bright. "Don't talk nonsense with regards to something you know fuck all about, hm?"

With that, she turned on her heel; not before flicking the cigarette butt at Hermione, where it landed dead-centre on the lapel of her coat. Ron opened his mouth to shout, but Hermione soothed him with a hand on his arm.

"Ignore it, they're being ridiculous. I can fix my coat later - and anyway, you did provoke them, Ron, whoever any of them sleep with is none of our business and it isn't our place to judge -"

"But they – I didn't – well, they _are _all strumpets, 'Mione!"

"Ronald, the day you stop channeling your mother's opinions on love and relationships will be the day I marry you. Now really, come on, we're falling behind."

"Hermione Granger, are you honestly telling me..."

Harry had heard this argument a million and one times, by now – Mrs Weasley and her ways were a surprising catalyst for many a lover's tiff – so he let them walk on and stopped at the peak of the hill, looking down. The village was close up, now – a small network of houses and narrow roads, larger than Hogsmeade but still not particularly huge. Under the setting autumn sun and the near-cloudless expanse of twilight blue, it looked completely peaceful. Down below, he heard Hermione and Ron's argument escalating, and further on, Lavender shrieking indignantly at Seamus, who with Susan's help had finally suceeded in tripping her up. Lisa was hovering uncertainly, looking unsure of whether to help Lavender or join in with the merriment. Malfoy, Parkinson and Zabini stood a little apart from the others with the former planted firmly in the middle, still holding Blaise's hand, but Harry could hear Parkinson squawking about something or other.

He was profoundly sorry, because the village would never know what had hit it.

* * *

><p>The Duke of Wellington bed and breakfast – which, from the outside, had seemed typical country pub fare – was surprisingly well decorated and classy, painted in warm colours with an open fireplace in the bar. Even Parkinson had seemed to approve, and tempers had cooled. Harry dared be optimistic up until the time when he and Hermione marched up to the bar to order drinks and realised the one, crucial flaw in their plan.<p>

"Identification, if you might, because you two don't look a day over sixteen t'me," the rotund, ruddy-faced barman had ordered in a deep Yorkshire burr. Harry did not think that he looked the sort of man to be trifled with, and he and Hermione cast each other a panicked glance.

"Er-"

"If you'll give us one moment, please," Hermione said shrilly, dragging Harry away from the bar and out of the barman's sight. "I can't believe I forgot, Harry! I knew there was something we should have thought of, I'm just so used to the wizarding world and we're of age _already _there – what are we going to do?"

"Er," Harry said again. "I really have no idea. Well, maybe we could confund-"

"_No wands!" _Hermione hissed violently, looking around herself just in case. "We could perhaps-"

Harry stopped listening as he looked around at the others, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together, clearly unaware that disaster was evident. And then help arrived in the shape of Parkinson, returning from the bathroom and becoming their unlikely saviour.

"Gemma? Gemma Farley, is that you?" She crowed, pushing back to the bar. Harry and Hermione frowned at each other – well, their barman had been a bar_man_, after all, and he didn't exactly look like the dictionary definition of a Gemma _or _someone Parkinson would socialise with. Creeping back towards the bar, they saw Parkinson exchanging air-kisses and shrill pleasantries with a tall, elegant girl who looked extremely out of place – the crates of beer on the counter told Harry she'd been in the back room when he and the others arrived. With dark, wild black curls, slanting cheekbones and dark, glowing skin, she looked as if she could be Zabini's older sister, not a barmaid in a tiny North Yorkshire village.

"Gemma Farley..." Hermione mumbled at his side, looking thoughtful. "Wasn't she a Slytherin prefect when we were in First Year?"

"Do you really expect me to remember?"

"Fair point."

"It's alright, Geoff, they're with me," Gemma was saying in a clear-cut, tinkling Oxford accent, patting the older man at her side on the shoulder. "Old school chums, definitely of age – no, don't look at me like that, would I lie to you? Off you pop, now, old chap, your dinner's getting cold in the back."

Geoff didn't look too amused by this suggestion but bumbled off anyway, presumably to finish the dinner Gemma had mentioned. With the bar empty and only Gemma to observe them now, everybody crowded forward. Harry found himself with Ron on one side, Lisa behind him and Seamus jostling just in front. Parkinson headed the group, an exciteable Zabini at her side. Malfoy, however, had hung back by the window seat, observing everyone coolly through heavy eyes that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Bellatrix. He turned around to find Gemma sitting on the bar, eyes bright and smile wide.

"What in God's name are you doing here?" Parkinson demanded, hands on hips.

"I could ask you the same question if I hadn't already heard," Gemma said, tying her curls up in a knot on top of her head. "Taking an eighth-year, eh? Doesn't surprise me, though I distinctly remember your year being a terrible bother to keep in check. Don't think I don't see you, Draco, and don't think I've forgiven you for desecrating my make-up bag when you were in third year, either."

Almost as one, the group turned to stare at Malfoy. He flipped them all two fingers and folded his arms, refusing to say anything more. Harry was utterly unsurprised – it seemed exactly the sort of petty, puerile thing Malfoy would do with his spare time.

"Well, yes, all very well, but what are _you _doing working as the help in some shoddy little-"

"Now, Blaise," Gemma said firmly, waggling a finger at him. "I'm not working as the help, I'm working as a barmaid. I wanted somewhere quiet where I could study a bit of Magizoology and get away from that horrid war business for a little while, and my parents knew people in the area who'd put me up, and _they_ got me the job, so here we are. Don't bitch about it, either, because it means I can serve you all cheap double measures instead of you sharing an even cheaper bottle of Firewhisky or nettle wine up in that horrid house. Now, who's having what?"

Served and in their seats in record time, Harry thought – with his hands curled around a deliciously strong glass of ordinary whiskey – that he very much liked Gemma Farley. She had been in Slytherin, certainly, but she seemed nice, with her keen interest in Magizoology, quick smile and easy hand with the alcohol behind the bar. She was also equally friendly to everybody, unlike her housemates, which instantly nudged Harry (and Ron, whom he had noticed chancing the odd glance down Gemma's low cut blouse) towards more positive leanings of the girl. Even Hermione had loosened up a little, smiling into a small glass of cherry schnapps and cola and letting Ron give her the odd peck. And the _really _great thing about the fact the bar had been empty when they arrived was the chance to spread out, so they didn't even have to sit with people they didn't like. Alright, so Malfoy was at the next table over and right in Harry's line of sight, but at least he didn't really have to listen to him _talk, _especially because Lavender and Seamus' loud game of darts drowned out a lot of the noise. Susan, clearly frustrated that her group bonding exercise was not going as well as she had hoped, was darting between each table, her bottle of beer clutched in a tight grip. She was lingering less and less at the Slytherin table, though, clearly put off by Parkinson's death glare and Zabini's cold expression. Even Malfoy seemed to be less tolerant of her than usual, and it led to Susan decamping to the fireside table with Lisa, a frown marring her features.

Well, let her sulk. Harry was having _loads_ of fun.

* * *

><p>"Shall I get us another?" Pansy asked a few hours later, holding up her empty glass of gin and tonic and giving Draco and Blaise a sparkling grin. Draco had to admit he'd been a little worried about Pansy tonight, especially after her earlier display in the toilet, but it did seem she was on top form – she hadn't even spilled a drink yet, and she was on her fifth.<p>

"Maybe give it a minute," Blaise said with his face scrunched up at the last of his vodka and lemon, one hand on his chest. "Christ, Gemma wasn't joking about the cheap double measures, was she? At this rate you'll be plucking me out of a puddle of vomit by ten."

"Not bloody likely," Pansy scoffed, crossing her legs. "We'd take a picture, wouldn't we?"

"And stopper the memory for future observation at family gatherings," Draco replied while trying to smile. He felt woozy, with heavy eyes and a slight sensation that the room was revolving ever-so-slightly. He had been drinking brandy, because his father liked brandy and it was what he had always drunk when in company, and Draco had felt like being proper for once. "Can't pass up a chance like that. Slytherin's honour, you know."

"I really appreciate that, Draco," Blaise grinned, leaning in with his elbows on the table, his face close to Draco's and his hands even more so. Over at the Gryffindor table, Draco saw Ron Weasley's jaw drop and his pint of bitter tilt dangerously, slopping a little down his shirt. As Granger fussed and Potter laughed, Draco turned back to his friend, frowning as his vision fuzzed and blurred yet again.

"Speaking of appreciation, I didn't particularly appreciate what you said to that lot earlier," Draco muttered, leaning back a little. "Weasley looked like he was going to either have a heart attack or shit himself. Why did you say it, anyway?"

"What part? The bit about you being a better shag? You probably are, you know, I don't imagine Granger having many tricks up her sleeve."

"But even still, now they're going to think -"

"Oh, Draco, stop worrying, who cares what they think?" Pansy interrupted, lighting up a cigarette and pulling the ashtray towards her, clearly having given up on another drink for now. "If they were to say anything, I'd rip them to shreds."

"And I haven't given them anything to think _about_," Blaise smiled slowly, standing up, and Draco didn't miss the implied 'yet', drunk or no drunk. "I'm off for a piss. Try not to miss me too much."

That wouldn't be difficult, Draco thought mutinously, watching as Blaise stood up and stretched. And then, quick as lightning, the other boy's hand dipped into his glass and scooped up some ice. Before he could even think to stop him, Blaise was sliding his hand into the collar of Draco's shirt, lingering just a moment too long and looking over at Weasley the entire while, before letting the ice cube drop and vanishing almost into thin air.

"_Fuck_!" Draco yelped, scrabbling to dig it out and loosening a few flimsy buttons in the process. Too late – the ice cube was sitting just below his navel, stopped by his tucked in shirt. Pansy was being a fabulous help, rocking her chair back on two legs and giving the full-throated laugh that Draco loved to hear – but only directed at _other _people's misfortune. Fuming, he stood up, knocking the table with his knees, and yanked his shirt out of his trousers to let the half-melted ice cube drop to the floor.

"Nice scars, Malfoy," Finnigan called from the dartboard, and though his tone wasn't inflammatory, Draco instantly bristled. He felt himself pale and look down; four buttons had come undone, revealing one of the more severe scars that criss-crossed across his chest and a few of the smaller ones, sat on top of his sternum and glinting in the light from the sconces on the walls.

_Fuck_.

"Piss off, Finnigan," he said, hating the way his voice trembled. His hands slipped and fumbled on the buttons, the five snifters of impossibly strong brandy doing nothing for his usual grace.

"Where did you get _them_?" Susan almost shrieked. She was slightly red in the face, her hair frizzing, and Draco couldn't deal with it if even _Susan _was drunk.

"None of your business, Susan, now drop it," he snapped, eventually giving up. Pansy had turned serious now and yanked him towards her, trying her utmost to cover him up. Her composure, however, did not extend to her co-ordination, and she only succeeded in making it worse, pulling another button through its loop. Draco cast his eyes heavenward, desperately praying for the ground to open and swallow him. He cast his eyes around the room – Finnigan was still observing him with some level of interest, as was Brown, an arm on Finnigan's shoulder as she narrowed her eyes. _Susan's_ eyes were suspiciously bright, and Lisa looked as if she wanted to ask but wouldn't ever dare. Pansy looked as miserable as Draco felt, Granger and the Weasel were wearing identical grimaces, and - oh, _fuck_. He was going to hex Blaise into next year. He had to.

Because now Harry Potter was staring right at him, looking absolutely horrified.

* * *

><p>He didn't even have a chance to run. The minute they had eye contact Potter was up on his feet, almost knocking he, Weasley and Granger's table over as he stumbled over to Draco.<p>

"It scarred."

"Yes, Potter, it scarred. Fuck off now," Draco hissed, clutching the two sides of his shirt together to try and save some of his dignity. He glanced at the bar – Gemma was watching them from where she was perched on a bar stool with a notebook, clearly trying to gage whether it would turn into a fist fight. If Draco had anything to do with it it would – he was sick to the back teeth of the way Potter kept _staring _at him when they were in class, as if trying to gouge when he would snap, and sick of the way everybody was so angry all of the time, and sick of the way he constantly _felt_ sick, and sick of the way people were looking at him now. Brandy had given him confidence to talk, burning low in his stomach, although he wasn't used to the sensation and wasn't sure he liked it.

"Why didn't you tell me it scarred?" Potter demanded, and Pansy snorted, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms. Draco glanced at her to let her know to keep her trap shut before rounding on Potter himself, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

"Well, we're not exactly best friends, are we? And for your information, Potter, not every little aspect of my life needs to come to your attention. You're not my fucking parole officer -"

"No, because thanks to me you don't need one!" Potter bit out seemingly without meaning to, and he only half-regretted it; Draco could tell by his expression.

"Oh, Saint Potter saves the day again," Draco laughed mirthlessly, throwing one arm out. "And as nice as your little attack of guilt is – no, really, I'm so flattered you deign to fucking_care –_ I don't want your sympathy."

Potter had opened his mouth to throw back an angry retort, but the others were crowding round now, and Finnigan jumped in, in typical Gryffindor style.

"Excuse me, but hang on a minute," he demanded, arms crossed. "What are you talkin' about? What in the name of Jesus has Harry got to be guilty about?"

Draco stayed silent, mind whirring as Potter froze and Granger and Weasley instantly flanked him, faces neutral. Oh, this was _rich, _wasn't it? Draco let a slow smile form on his lips, stepping right up to the Irishman, whom he dwarfed by three inches.

"You mean your precious Chosen Twat didn't tell you all?" He grinned, but he could feel his eyes burning and the brandy _really _wasn't agreeing with him anymore. This was dangerous territory – talking about his past was never easy for Draco, and especially this part of his past. Only Pansy and the still absent Blaise knew on his , he had instantly assumed that out of some stupid trite emotion like shame or regret Potter would have confessed to some of his closer housemates, and everybody knew that the Gryffindors gossiped like old women. "Do you want _me_ to tell you? Do you want me to tell you what he did?"

"Draco," Pansy said warningly, holding out a hand. "Come on. You don't have to -"

"Shut up." He barked, emotions spinning wildly out of control now. He was breathing heavily out of his nose, one fist still clenched at the neck of his shirt. "I really can't believe he didn't tell you."

"Malfoy, please-" Even Granger was trying now, but it was too late for that. Taking a deep breath, Draco let the words out.

"I can't believe he didn't _tell_ you he tried to kill me! Funny, really!"

The bar fell so silent you could have heard a pin drop. Almost everyone looked aghast, bar Potter, who had gone the colour of ice, his skin so pale it seemed just as translucent. His features seemed frozen too, and Draco felt a rush of vindictive satisfaction the like of which he hadn't experienced since breaking the same boy's nose under his foot.

"He – what?" Brown shook her head a little. "No he didn't, Malfoy. Don't talk shit."

"Thank you, Lavender," Weasley said. "I mean, you don't know the whole story, but it doesn't really matter now -"

"Doesn't really matter?" Pansy was on her feet in a flash, her height no disadvantage – she could get in someone's face with a _look_. "My best friend nearly bled to death on a toilet floor in one of the worst years of his life and it doesn't bloody _matter_?"

"Hold your horses!" Finnigan hollered, waving his arms. "Harry, did you try and kill Malfoy or what?"

Everyone had turned to Potter now, and Draco stood back, still clinging to his shirt. He was shaking, but he wanted to hear what Potter said before he made a break for it. The boy looked awkward, now, curling his fingers around his jersey cuffs and ducking his head, hiding behind the mop of monstrous black thatch that masqueraded as hair.

"I mean, I – well, I cursed him, yeah, but I didn't realise what the spell did, I swear -"

"No fuckin' way," Finnigan said quietly, eyebrows somewhere in the vicinity of invisible, and Draco – somehow – felt relieved that Potter had admitted it. Damage successfully done, he turned on his heel and made to leave, but a hand on his shirt cuff stopped him.

"Malfoy, honestly, don't be like this – don't be so fucking stupid!"

"_Stupid? _Potter, you nearly fucking killed me. I'm stuck with scars for the rest of my life and you're calling me _stupid_?"

Gemma was on her feet now, eyes narrowed beneath her perfect eyebrows, clearly ready to intervene at the drop of a hat.

"I just meant -"

"Oh, eloquent as always, now piss _off_, I can't stand to look at your face any more-"

"Will you _listen_!" Potter shouted, dragging him back round. Staggering, Draco's cheek collided with one of Potter's half-clenched, extended fists by accident. He jerked backwards, thinking quickly. Could he call that a punch?

"I – that was – I didn't mean it -" Potter stammered, though his confident stance didn't falter for a a second. Granger had her face buried in her hands, and Weasley looked the epitome of the burly best friend, cracking his knuckles, which made Draco think of Crabbe. Thinking of his dead friend, and how he owed Potter and hated it more than anything in the world, Draco forced a smile.

"Do a lot of things you don't mean, don't you?"

And he drew his fist back and punched Harry Potter in the face.

* * *

><p>It was a short fight, as fights went. Potter only got one punch in before Gemma had them both by the ears, her manicured nails sharper than they looked.<p>

"Right!" She said forcefully, hair practically on end in her fury. "I will not have you fighting in here – it's more than my job's worth, understand? Geoff would fire me, he already thinks I'm a bit odd, and he's not happy I even served you. If you don't want a lifetime ban, bugger off and don't come back for a good few days, and that goes for _all_ of you. I've never seen such idiotic brats. _Episkey_," she spat, whipping a wand out of her back pocket before stowing it away again. Potter's nose stopped bleeding and the bone snapped back into place audibly, but he still looked miserable and, in all honesty, a right state. _Good. _"Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Pansy said carefully, gathering up her things. Blaise re-appeared at the door to the bar, looking confused.

"What the bloody hell is going on? I got distracted – there was a map of the area in the bathroom so I -"

"_Move._" Pansy growled, hauling Blaise out by the arm. Grabbing his jacket, Draco wrenched himself away and left the inn without a second glance. The walk back was uneventful, as compared to the evening – he fell again, once or twice, but he still felt buoyed by alcohol and rage. It was only back in his room that he realised what an absolute arse of everything he had made, yet again – letting emotions rule reason wasn't very Slytherin, was it? Then again, he tended to make a cock-up of all of that every time he tried. And Potter had_pushed _him, asking about the scars, demanding to know things he really had no right to. He was still vascillating between fuming at Potter and fuming at himself for doing exactly what everybody had thought he would when Blaise arrived, closely followed by Susan. Draco felt a fresh twinge of guilt at ignoring her throughout the night, but at the time, Pansy and Blaise and the ever-so-brief respite from the unusual and the stressful had seemed more important. She didn't seem to hold it against him, though, leaning against the doorframe in a tipsy manner with two mugs of tea in her hand, wearing her Hufflepuff jumper and her trademark grin.

"What a bloody mess that was, wasn't it?" She said. Draco nodded, accepting his tea as Blaise threw himself backwards fully clothed and with his eyes shut on the bed. Thinking Susan would have learned her lesson about their little excursion and its positive qualities, Draco didn't say anything more, which was why he choked on his tea the next time she spoke.

"Same again next week, d'you think?"

* * *

><p><strong>Oooh, Lordy. Hello again everyone! Apologies again that this is so late - I have a vaguely valid excuse this time in that I've had a very stressful few months, what with beginning my second year of my degree and so on. I've had a whole bunch of real life things that have been keeping me impossibly busy and writing had, I think understandably, fallen by the wayside. However, I've brought you an update - a long one! - as a slightly late Christmas present. This is the version of this chapter I was happiest with, so I hope you like it. Thank you so much for all of your reviews, too - CaramelAriana, columcille and the ineffable swan-scones, you are perfect. I'm aware I haven't personally replied to your reviews, but that's another thing that I've lost track of. Just know that your kind words of praise mean the world to me, they really do. Also thanks to all of the people favouriting and alerting - I'm glad you like it!<strong>

**Special thanks, however, go to swan-scones, my beautiful Sophie. She's been there for me countlessly over the last year, so this chapter is dedicated to her, because she is a very important friend and I have been a very _rubbish _friend and not replied to her private message like a giant idiot. (I am so inefficient.) She should know, however, she is a V.I.F and also a V.I.P (and, if you're reading this, Brainbox, I'll be replying tomorrow to you, because it is currently 03:19 and I am dead.)**

**SO, yes. Enjoy and whatnot and I hope you've had a wonderful festive season and a lovely Christmas to those who celebrate it :)**

_**Cherry**_


	5. Chapter 5

The weather was appropriate this afternoon, Harry thought mournfully, staring out into the yard from the kitchen at the fog that obscured almost everything. It was the Wednesday of the week after their outing, and safe to say, the current climate outdoors was reflective of everyone's _indoors_. Mind you, Harry thought, it could be worse. At least no punches had been thrown this week. _Yet_, a small, treacherous voice at the back of Harry's head said, and he snorted.

"I'll give it time," he muttered to himself, earning a confused look from Seamus, who was sitting at the table scribbling frantically at his Defence Against the Dark Arts homework, due after lunch.

"Talkin' to yourself?" He affirmed, before smiling slightly. "D'you think you could lend _me _some of that blessed fuckin' time and help me with this essay? Throw a drowning man a life line, so to speak?"

Harry rolled his eyes and grinned, setting down the last of his sandwich and pulling Seamus' essay towards him. Hermione most certainly wouldn't approve, but she wasn't here, so he didn't feel all that guilty. And the work they were doing _was _difficult – something to do with counter-curses and wards – so there probably wasn't any wrong in pooling everyone's knowledge. After scribbling out a few of Seamus' weaker sentences and pointing out where he'd gone wrong, however, Harry felt a prickling on the back of his neck, as if he was being watched. Turning slowly, he saw Hermione standing by the door to the hall, arms crossed. Thankfully, however, she simply looked amused.

"You know, Seamus, if you actually _listened_ to Professor Hughes instead of just gawking at her like a moron, you might get somewhere."

"I can't _help _it, Hermione," he groaned, tossing down his quill as Harry laughed. "She's bloody _gorgeous_. Isn't she, Harry? Isn't she just the finest woman ever to walk the Earth?"

"Well, she's well up there, but I wouldn't say the finest," he said. Professor Hughes had arrived on the first Wednesday of their term in a tight cut set of silver robes, sleek blonde hair falling over one shoulder. She had blue eyes, fair skin, and a smile that – although rare, because she was as strict as McGonagall on a good day – was like the kiss of sunshine after a week's rain when she gifted it. Lavender detested her, though, and Harry wondered how much of Seamus' adoration came back to the fact that the two seemed to constantly strive for contrariness.

"You know, there are times I think you value that Gryffindor loyalty and honour shite a bit too much," Seamus tutted, tapping his scroll with his wand. It rolled up and then shot off in the opposite direction, landing in Harry's plate and ending up smeared in a stray blob of mayonnaise. "Ginny isn't here, mate, she's not going to go mental at you. I'm fairly sure you're not the top of her world wide heart throb list."

"Seamus!" Hermione said, scandalized.

"What? Have you _seen _some of them pin-ups in Witch Weekly? Enough to give a bloke an inferiority complex for _life_! Anyway, Harry, don't worry – you're more than likely to top a few other's lists with that Saviour status you've got going."

With a final wink, Seamus grabbed his essay, and bemoaning its current state meandered through to the classroom, leaving a rather limp atmosphere behind.

"Lavender's right," Hermione murmured under her breath. "So bloody insensitive. Well, chin up Harry, I'm sure she'll write soon! Ron's convinced of it, and so am I."

Harry tried for a smile. Hermione did too, and neither were successful. Harry had gotten past confusion and frustration at Ginny's behavior and was now simply feeling awful, which, while it wouldn't get him anywhere, was satisfying in its own way. He pushed his plate away, no longer hungry, and felt a warm arm snake around his waist as Hermione sat down next to him.

"Harry, do you... Do you really think it would be so awful if you and Ginny were to call things quits? I _only _mean – oh, honestly, Harry!" Hermione grumbled as he pulled away. It was only the concern on her features that stopped him from sliding right off of the low bench and leaving the room. "I only meant, well, you'll be here for another year, won't you? It isn't fair on you or on Ginny to wait around for months on end again, especially after last time. It just doesn't seem right."

"But I want to be with her," Harry said stiffly. He didn't want to think about what Hermione had said, because there was a voice in the back of his head that reminded him that Hermione was usually right. _Not about this_, he thought fiercely, thinking of Ginny's hair in the sun, and her impressions of Fleur, and the way she moved on a broom. "I only want to be with her."

"And such dedication is admirable," Hermione said earnestly, grabbing for his hand. "Oh, Harry, I only want you to be happy. And way out here, miles from Hogwarts, it just doesn't seem like you will be."

Harry smiled weakly, turning his palm and interlocking his fingers with Hermione's.

"Don't worry," he assured her, feeling only slightly guilty for the lie. "I am."

* * *

><p>Although, Harry thought to himself, when he had distractions like the ridiculous DADA work they were doing, it was almost easy to believe he <em>was <em>happy, lost in essays and textbooks once more. The war had left its troubles with everyone, and he still sometimes found it difficult to sleep or felt the losses of those he had loved as keenly as if it had happened days ago, not months. But here, miles from all of the more vivid reminders, it was usually fairly easy to get lost in more material matters. Plus, nobody ever really talked about it. Harry was sure that wasn't a healthy attitude, but it wasn't as if he could march up to – oh, for example, Lavender, and tell her she absolutely right that instant had to tell somebody about how she felt about the scars that marred the side of her face and neck and the way she felt such a compulsion to hide them. In any case, their workload was huge, so it wasn't as if they didn't have more than enough to be getting on with without dredging up horrible memories.

"Now," Professor Hughes said, leaning back against her Conjured desk and bracing herself with both hands. "We're going to do a bit of a subject cross and talk about the merits of the Fidelius charm as a ward against Dark magic. Who can tell me what they know about the Fidelius charm?"

Harry's stomach felt heavy, but he, Hermione and Ron all raised their hands, though nobody else did. They weren't at that point in their Charms syllabus yet, and he doubted very much that the others had ever come into physical contact with it.

"Hermione," Professor Hughes smiled slightly, inclining her head. "Why don't you start?"

"Well, the Fidelius charm is an extremely complicated piece of magic," Hermione began, in her usual keen manner. Parkinson was sitting on their right, making barely disguised quacking-duck hand motions, which made Zabini snicker. Malfoy, however, caught her hand and pulled it under the desk out of sight, hissing at her that she'd get in trouble. "It involves the taking of a secret and -"

In the middle of Hermione's sentence, however, there was a loud screech and bang. Whirling round, Harry saw a tawny owl flapping at the window, being buffeted by strong winds and clearly trying to keep some manner of control.

"Gracious," Hughes said, managing not to sound even the least bit flustered even though her eyes were wide in surprise. "Someone let it in, then, we've got a lesson to learn."

Scrambling backwards, Harry had hefted the window open and had the owl perched on his shoulder before anybody else could even move. It was a Hogwarts owl, which could only mean one thing. The owl waited impatiently for him to take the note attached to its leg, then nipped irritably at his ear and was off. Shutting the window and climbing back into his seat, Harry was paying no mind to Hermione's slightly flustered explanation of the Fidelius charm, his entire attention focused on the paper in his hand.

_ Harry,_

_ Sorry it's taken me so long to get in contact. Things have been hectic and I've had a lot to think about. I'm free this weekend – first Hogsmeade trip of the year – so if you'd like I can call over to where you are. I think it's time we talked. _

_ Ginny _

Well, that put paid to Harry's work ethic for the week, didn't it?

* * *

><p>By the time Saturday rolled around, he was almost beside himself. He hadn't joined the others at the pub the night before, because for one he hadn't wanted a hangover, but for another, he didn't think he could face the effort it took to be civil with so much on his mind. In a show of solidarity, Ron had stayed behind as well – ostensibly to work on his homework, but there was no telling what Ginny could report in a letter to Mrs Weasley after her visit, after all. Hermione had gone, though, because she was nothing if not a trier. She told them over breakfast that it hadn't gone as badly as the week before, and that the Slytherins had actually deigned to let Susan sit with them this time.<p>

"If you ask me," Hermione said as she buttered her toast, looking fresh-faced and pretty with her hair pulled away from her face in a brightly coloured scrunchie, a stark contrast to the other Gryffindors who'd staggered downstairs for sustenance. "I think Susan has a bit of a crush on Malfoy."

"Not half," Lavender said in agreement, looking up from the cupboard where she was fetching a bowl. "Though really, can you blame her?"

"_Lavender_!" Ron and Seamus said at the exact same time, scandalised.

"What?" She said, undeterred as she reached for the cereal. "It's true. He's got that whole skinny, elegant, effeminate thing going on. And he looks a lot better now that he's started wearing his hair like a normal human being."

"You disgust me," Ron muttered, looking faintly green as he turned back to his bacon and eggs. Hermione smiled fondly at him, munching quietly on her toast. No danger of _her_ ever extolling Malfoy's (apparently now more obvious) physical virtues, especially because she still wasn't all too fond of her ex dorm-mate. Ron, meanwhile, would probably have been grateful that Malfoy had stopped wearing a ridiculous amount of air product because it actually _hid _his face.

"He's still a git, though," Lavender said. "Don't worry. I haven't _completely _taken leave of my senses."

Harry was glad to hear it. The idea of anyone finding Malfoy attractive was – well, it was odd, really. It wasn't that he was ugly, because, in point of fact, he wasn't when he wasn't being an idiot; which was, unfortunately, a lot of the time. It was just strange to think of anybody finding the pointy, skinny boy appealing in any way, shape or form. Harry checked his watch – it was eleven o'clock, which meant that Ginny would be here any time from now, depending on how long she dithered. He picked up a spoon and attempted to surreptitiously check his reflection in the back of it, and tried in vain to flatten down one of the many tufts of hair sticking up in every direction.

"Oh, don't fret, Harry, darling, you still look gorgeous," Seamus snickered, slumped over next to Lavender at the other end of the table with nothing but a mug of black coffee and a distinctly greyish tinge to his skin. "I'm sure Ginny will still fancy the arse off you."

"Can we not talk about who my sister fancies the arse off of, thank you," Ron said primly, using a slice of bread to mop up the last of his ketchup. God only knew where he'd gotten the supplies or the wherewithal to make a fry up. As the others laughed, though, Ron somehow managed an encouraging smile for Harry, which did make him feel a little bit better. He was just considering having a piece of toast – somehow he felt too nervous to eat – when there was loud cursing from just outside and Parkinson tumbled in. Harry was immediately discomfited by her appearance. It was highly unusual to see her looking un-made up, and here she was not even dressed. She was wearing what looked to be green silk pyjamas (did she ever wear _any _different colours?) and her house jumper, her hair pushed back from her face and her eyes narrowed.

"Would anybody care to tell me," she started hoarsely, obviously not long awake. "Why when I went to fetch my tobacco from the lounge a Weasley suddenly tumbled out of the fireplace? It really is very inconvenient, you know, some of us are of a delicate disposition and don't like to be startled so early in the morning."

"Firstly, it's eleven fifteen, Parkinson, and secondly, you are the least delicate person I've met, so don't start," Lavender said mildly, not looking up for a second. Parkinson simply pulled a face at her, wrinkling her pug nose and sticking out her tongue, before turning to Harry and glaring.

"I'm presuming the Weaselette is here on business pertaining to you," she grumbled, fetching a glass of water and turning away, speaking her last as she marched back upstairs. "Go and sort her out, she's hovering something awful."

"See?" Hermione said with an ironic grin, rolling her eyes. "Progress."

"Yeah, she didn't out and out insult anyone too badly," Harry half-smiled, standing up with a sudden, renewed surge of butterflies in his stomach. "Better go and fetch the _Weaselette _from the _lounge._"

Even though he'd joked, however, he still found it difficult to enter the sitting room, instead hovering in their classroom, which was empty for the weekend. Hand on the door, he tried to take a deep breath.

_Come on, you idiot. You've faced down Voldemort, you can face down your girlfriend._

With that, he finally got up the courage and pushed open the door. Ginny was, indeed, hovering, still stood by the fireplace. She was wearing a torn pair of jeans and sturdy leather ankle boots, a soft hat and a grey sweater, and Harry almost ached to look at her.

"Oh, finally," she laughed, stepping around the coffee table. "I was wondering when you were going to show up, after Parkinson came in and got so startled she swore at me for a good five seconds. Top quality entertainment."

Harry grinned at her as he strode across the room, and pulled her into his arms for a tight hug.

"I've missed you," he said, moving to kiss her. She smiled, but turned her head a little so that his lips only brushed against her cheek.

"You too," she said quietly, still smiling – but it was a very small smile. "Is Ron about? I'd like to see him before we go off and do whatever I'm sure you have planned."

"Er, yes," Harry said, confused at Ginny's awkward conduct, letting his hands fall from her waist. "He's in the kitchen. Straight through, and, er..."

But she was already gone. And, he thought with sudden panic, he hadn't really had anything planned – the thought of seeing her again had pushed everything else out of his head. He supposed, however, that since the week's earlier fog had died out and now they were left with chilly but bright weather, they could go for a walk and talk in private. Stomping into his shoes, Harry tried to push away his unease – he hadn't seen her in nearly two months, it was bound to be a bit awkward at first. She'd warm up.

She had to.

* * *

><p>And, after a fashion, she did. Harry and Ginny wandered hand in hand across the moors chatting happily about the Quidditch league tables and George's attempts to invent a new kind of bubblegum which caused the speaker to start babbling in a completely different language. Ginny was never the most participatory of hand-holders, it was true, but she seemed content for the minute, swinging a plastic carrier bag filled with sandwiches and fruit juice and the Honeydukes chocolate she'd brought in her other hand as they headed for a patch of heath covered in vivid lilac heather. Harry and Ron had discovered it on one of their many walks, because without Quidditch they had to do <em>something <em>to keep fit, and he had instantly resolved to bring Ginny here when – or if, as it had seemed at the time – she visited.

"It's gorgeous," she breathed, eyes bright, when they eventually arrived. Although the heath was flat, it was also higher than a lot of the surrounding area, and they could see the house and Danby beyond, idyllic and peaceful under a bright blue autumn sky. Harry smiled as Ginny plonked herself down and pulled out a chicken sandwich, tearing into it without any further ado – like brother, like sister, he mused as he sat next to her. Swallowing, she turned back to him. "You know, I didn't think about how nice it would be to be in different surroundings, away from everything, when you first wrote. I was more worried about who you were house-sharing with, but it's hard to be scared of Pansy Parkinson when she's in her pyjamas and swearing, looking like a startled house-elf."

"You say that now, but you've never had to deal with her when we're queueing for the bathroom," Harry said darkly, and Ginny laughed.

"Alright, so that doesn't sound ideal. Still, when you get free space like this, and you're allowed to go where you want, whenever you want..." She sighed wistfully. Harry reached out for a drink, shaking his head.

"It's not as great as all that. I mean, yeah, it's nice, but it would be nicer if there was somewhere to go – moors are great if you're into nature, but other than the pub, you're either squelching about in mud or sitting indoors. And I miss Hogwarts – I miss long corridors and flagstones and Hagrid, and the house-elves' cooking. God knows that we try, but I'm about the only one with any degree of skill. In saying that, Ron does a mean bacon sandwich."

"So you don't miss me?" Ginny said, sounding mock-offended as she brushed her hands on her jeans.

"Of course I do, stupid," Harry laughed, reaching out to tuck a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. "More than the rest of it combined. How come you didn't write for so long, anyway?"

"Oh, a bunch of reasons," she trilled airily, lying back with her hands behind her head. "Firstly, I got made Head Girl, but I wanted to tell you and Ron and Hermione myself so I made Mum promise not to say in her letters. I've been bloody knackered – as you can imagine, there's all sorts of scrapping amongst the Slytherins and Gryffindors still, and even worse, just within Slytherin house. Weirdly, though, because half of them seem to want to move on, and the other half won't put up with it. But Astoria Greengrass is a prefect and we've got the same free periods, so I've managed to get her to keep an eye on them. Nice girl, could teach the lot back at yours some manners," Ginny said, looking up at him, brown eyes warm. "And I've been helping Luna with Quibbler stuff, her dad can't do it all – obviously he's still a bit cuckoo after the war, poor bloke – so she's doing some of it by correspondence. She's looking great, by the way, almost no scars left after the Malfoy Manor business, and she's very philosophical about it all, so I suppose that's a blessing."

"Yeah," Harry said quietly. He had promised Luna over the summer that he would write to her, but he hadn't, and now he felt guilty. Luna was a good friend of his, and he'd been worrying so much about Ginny and annoyed with his situation and so damn busy with schoolwork -

"Don't worry," Ginny soothed, leaning up on her elbows. "She said to tell you not to be worried and that she understood you'd have more than enough to be getting on with. I think she wanted to come and visit on the next Hogsmeade weekend next month, actually, once the Quibbler is doing a bit better. I've had Neville writing, too, he's loving it down by the River Eden – says there's plenty of greenery and all that to keep him occupied. He's with Hannah Abbott, I think they've started up a little thing. Don't quote me, though," she said mischievously, waggling her eyebrows. "I'm not meant to know, but I'm good at understanding the things boys don't say."

"Bloody hell," Harry said, finishing off a chocolate frog. "No wonder you haven't written, with all that to keep you occupied."

_Although, _he thought annoyedly to himself, _it's not like she couldn't have jotted off a letter to let me know that she was alive, or anything. I'm sure even the Head Girl gets five minutes to herself **sometimes**_**.**

"Yeah," Ginny said, frowning suddenly. "I mean, that isn't the only reason, just..."

She tailed off into silence, chewing her plump lower lip and looking down across the moor. And here came the awkwardness again, Harry thought. This time, though, he tried to summon up his inner Gryffindor and reached out for Ginny's hand. She didn't pull it away, but she didn't lace her fingers through his, either.

"Gin?" He said questioningly, ducking his head to look at her. "What's up?"

"Look, Harry, I -" she said, then turned her face upwards. "Fuck. I think it's starting to rain."

"Fuck the rain," Harry said urgently, dragging her round to look at him. "You said in your letter that you wanted to talk, so talk to me. You can't just want to fill me in on Hogwarts and all that, I _knew _there was another reason you hadn't written, I didn't honestly think that you couldn't even find five minutes to send a quick note -"

"Alright, Mr. Demanding," Ginny said hotly, wrenching her hand away. "Just, let me get my words straight, alright?"

"Fine," Harry said moodily, well and truly annoyed now. He'd been in such a good mood, for the first time in what felt like an eternity after being trapped on this stupid shitty moor, and just like that it had evaporated. And he didn't _want _to be annoyed at Ginny, but her serious expression and the way she suddenly wouldn't look at him were setting him on edge. Something didn't feel right, and he didn't need Hermione to analyse this behavior to tell him that Ginny had something big on her mind. But he let her think, or whatever it was she wanted to do, picking at the last of their snacks but no longer hungry. It _had_ started to rain, but it was only little spits every so often, so he didn't want to interrupt to suggest they head back. And, it seemed, his silence paid off, because after about ten minutes, Ginny turned to him, not looking so angry, and took both of his hands in hers.

"Right," she began, taking a deep breath. "The real reason I didn't write was because – well, was because I wanted to speak to you in person. I didn't think I could keep up pretending everything was grand in letters, so I had to wait until I knew what I wanted before we talked about things."

"Things? What – what things?" Harry said. He wasn't quite as bad as Ron, but he was nervous now and that made him inarticulate, because the only serious _thing _Ginny could talk about was -

"Things like our relationship, Harry," she said gently, and now it was her turn to try and catch his eye. "I don't – okay, I'll just come out and say it. I don't want to be with you anymore."

Harry couldn't speak. He tried, certainly, opening up his mouth and trying to force sound out, but he couldn't. Ginny couldn't honestly be saying that – she couldn't be dumping him, because that would just be the icing on the cake of a spectacularly bad year. There was an odd hollow feeling in his chest, and he couldn't bring himself to look up into Ginny's earnest expression.

"But you have to understand me, Harry, honestly, it isn't because of you -"

"If you say 'it's not you, it's me', Gin, I swear to Merlin-"

"I wasn't going to say that, smart-arse." She said grumpily, looking guilty all the same. "It isn't because of either of us. It's just, we're in a shitty situation where we're separated again, and, you know, I feel like we need time to just grow up and see other people and do other things. I don't think I could stand another year of pining away in Hogwarts while all of my friends are out flirting and having a great laugh. And I don't think it's any great shakes for you, either, before you jump down my throat. I just think that after the war, we really shouldn't force ourselves to wait about for another what, ten months? We might be completely different people by then, Harry."

"Are you trying to justify this to me, or to yourself?" Harry said bitterly. Ginny took her hands back, looking stung, and even hurt, Harry missed them instantly.

"I'm sorry," she said, and to her credit, she did look like she meant it, eyes bright. "I've spent a lot of time thinking about this, though, and this – I don't – this is what I want. Us just to be friends."

"Friends," Harry echoed, though it didn't have quite the same timbre when he said it. "Right, that makes sense. Dumping a bloke who's mad for you then telling him you just want to be friends."

"Well, I had to be _your _friend for years when you chased after Cho and then -" Ginny began to retort, then cut herself off. "No, look. I'm not going to be cruel or mean about this. Or at least, any more than I have to be. I never, ever wanted to hurt you, Harry. Really. I know you've had enough of that, and I genuinely did – I _do –_ care for you. Just, it's all different, somehow. The war's thrown things into a new light for me... I suppose, as horrible as this sounds, I don't know, I feel like now we're not threatened with imminent _death _all the time, we don't need to throw ourselves into a relationship, it just doesn't feel so urgent or even so important. I want to really _live_, Harry, I don't want to settle down when I'm only seventeen. Do you understand?"

He managed to nod, though his eyes were prickling. He did, in a strange sort of way, though it was agony to admit. He _knew _they had the rest of their lives, instead of a ticking time bomb hanging over them. And he could see why Ginny might want to be more of a free spirit, now, because she had the time to do what she wanted, she didn't have to grasp for everything and cling on so desperately. But -

"But I – I thought." Harry said miserably, swallowing before trying again. "I think I love you."

"Oh, Harry, don't," Ginny said, suddenly tearful. "You don't, not really. Don't look like that, _please_, I know you care about me very much, and I care about you too, but – we were together properly for about a month and a half before the war, and then over the summer, and we didn't even _sleep _together, and you've never said it before. So please don't now. It isn't love, it's – oh, I'm mucking it all up!" she snapped, then burst into tears and threw her head into her hands. Harry, startled out of his maudlin reverie for a moment, looked at her, then gave up and pulled her into a hug.

"Alright, don't cry. I should be the one doing that, I'm the one being bloody dumped." He tried to laugh, but it sounded thick even to his own ears. Ginny hiccuped sadly, sniffling into his chest before drawing back to wipe her eyes. There was a whiff of flowery scent, and Harry felt nauseous, so much was his longing to have her back in his arms.

"I wish things were different," she said, nose red and skin blotchy. "I do. But I think now we have to do what makes us happy, and this isn't what's going to do that."

"Ok." Harry managed, before standing up and holding out a hand to help Ginny do the same. "I can't say that I'm pleased, but if it's what'll make _you_ happy."

Ginny nodded, looking at her feet and scuffing one foot across the heather. They stood in awkward silence for a minute, before she sighed.

"I've ruined the day now. Maybe I should go. It's probably best I do, really, I'm getting cold anyway and I've got Head Girl stuff to do this afternoon. But as I said, Luna really does want to visit – I can come back next month?"

"That'd be nice," Harry said, attempting a smile. It was half-successful, at least, and Ginny linked her arm through his as they began to walk back towards the house.

Well, at least life couldn't get any worse.

* * *

><p>Draco was lying on the couch in the sitting room, reading through the Muggle Studies textbook and attempting to understand all it said about electrical circuits. Pansy, sitting by his feet, had given up long ago, claiming her hangover was too bad to work. She'd had a skinful the night before, true enough, and was now charming her nails black with a shaky hand. Blaise was in the opposite chair, scowling into a mug of tea. Draco had been cautious after last week and stuck within his limits, waking up hangover free. Blaise, of course, had pushed to the excess, and had woken up with a roiling stomach and red eyes, as well as a temper like a dragon with a sore head. Susan and Lisa were sitting right by the fire in an attempt to warm up, working on something or other. They might all still hate each other, Draco thought, but at least they'd gotten to the stage of being able to share a room, because it was getting cold and this was the only place where there was a fire.<p>

There was a sudden _phwump_ noise, and he glanced up, was perched on the arm of the couch all of a sudden, glaring at him in that horribly intelligent way it had.

"Shoo," he mumbled, flicking a hand at it annoyedly. The cat, however, simply reached out a paw and placed it over his fingers, as if to subdue him, then – inexplicably – began to purr. Amused despite himself, Draco felt a small smile begin to form, but it slipped away almost as fast as it had arrived when he noticed Susan and Turpin watching him, looking entertained.

"Were you just talking to a cat, Draco?" Susan demanded, eyebrow arching.

"No, I most certainly wasn't. Go back to work." He said snottily, hiding behind the pages of his book. Pansy snorted, and he kicked her gently as everybody else fell back into silence. There was a loud clatter from the kitchen, where the Gryffindors still were, and after a few minutes, one Ginny Weasley stomped into the room, dragging on her hat as she approached the fireplace, scattering the intrepid workers there and snatching for the Floo powder.

"Ginevra Molly Weasley!" her brother was shouting after her as he hurried in. "Don't think you can just come in here and then just disappear off again, I barely got to see you this afternoon – oi! Get back here!"

"Ron, let her go," said Granger warningly, appearing behind her boyfriend with Potter, who looked... Dishevelled was one word, but distraught and trying to hide it was perhaps better. Trouble in paradise, perhaps? Draco tried to care, tried to summon up some snide word that he could throw, but there was none forthcoming, at least for the minute. His mind, first of all, was full of circuits still, but more than that he was exhausted. He hadn't been sleeping well, what with the post-war nightmares he still suffered from, so Harry Potter's love life was the least of his worries. He had to save up all the antagonism for when it was really needed.

"Ginevra, eh?" Blaise said suddenly, raising his head. Pansy turned to look at him, as did everybody else, Draco included. Even the girl herself had paused, half bent and about to throw the powder into the flames, seriously risking singing her hair. "That's an Italian name."

"Yes, I know," she muttered, then moved her hand and the flames went green.

"Do you have any Italian in you?" He queried, looking her up and down.

_Oh, no. Not this line again._

"No, Zabini, you know fine well I don't." The youngest Weasley huffed, stepping forward and not sparing Blaise a second glance.

"Would you like some?"

If the unfortunate recipient of Blaise's terrible flirting hadn't already been in the fire and saying 'McGonagall's Office' by this point, Draco was sure she would have gone spare. As it was, though, they just caught her indignant squawk as she spun away. Granger, clearly having the foresight that had gotten the Golden Trio through many of their scrapes, dragged Weasley away before he could beat Blaise's face in, leaving Potter standing alone in the doorway, scowling.

"Moron," Pansy sighed, before picking up her wand and moving onto her toenails, unconcerned. "What happened to 'wouldn't touch a blood traitor like her whatever she looked like'?"

"What happened was times have changed, Pans," Blaise smirked, glancing up at Potter. "And the littlest Weasley seems to have changed for the better."

Without warning, Blaise was being dragged out of his chair by the scruff of his shirt, yelping as Potter pinned him to the wall. Draco sat up so fast that Crookshanks, still on the arm of the couch by his head, hissed and leapt away, bottle-brush tail held high. Pansy didn't even flinch, muttering under her breath about 'brings it on himself, he really does'. The girls by the fire had upended an inkpot in fright, and were busying themselves trying to look disinterested as they cleaned up (and failing miserably).

"Don't you _ever –_ how _dare _you speak about her like that, she's worth ten of you -" Potter was snarling. It seemed he'd finally snapped, then. And, for his part, Blaise seemed to have finally gotten sick of the good-humoured persona he'd adopted recently, eyes narrowing.

"I highly doubt that," Blaise retorted coolly. "It just seems that now she's got the face and figure to make up for her other failings."

Potter raised a fist, but thank God for Gryffindor honour, because he hesitated. That gave Draco enough time to get off of the sofa and move to grab the boy's wrist, holding it away from his friend's face.

"Don't bother," he said quietly. "It isn't worth getting in another scrap over."

"Coming from _you_," Potter spat, rounding on him, but letting go of Blaise, who for all his portrayal of carelessness looked relieved as he rubbed at his neck. "You started a scrap over nothing the other week at the pub -"

"Excuse me, but you injuring me near-fatally with an incredibly dangerous curse – that you knew nothing about, might I add - was not nothing. Blaise insulting your silly little girlfriend, meanwhile, is. Stop being a drama queen."

"And you think _you _can say that to me -"

"Alright, Potter," Draco said grimly, still holding the boy's wrist in his hand. He was absolutely sick to the back teeth of everybody being an idiot, and he figured he needed to start with the chief offender. "You and I are going to have a little chat. Come along."

With that, he turned and dragged Potter off to the kitchen, leaving the others in stunned silence in their wake.

* * *

><p>Flinging Potter onto the bench so roughly that he almost fell right off again, Draco marched across to the sink and filled the kettle.<p>

"What the hell, Malfoy?" Potter demanded, seemingly still fuming. "Just where exactly do you get off on telling me what to do and throwing me about?"

"Believe me, Potter," Draco sighed, rummaging in the cupboard for his mug and the one that he'd seen the other boy use. "I don't get off on _anything _to do with you. I just wasn't in the mood for either Blaise getting his nice, aquiline nose ruined or you throwing another bloody silly hissy fit."

The mild innuendo of that statement seemed to knock the wind out of Potter's sails for a minute, so Draco took that as his chance to busy himself with making the tea. He wasn't sure whether to be proud or ashamed that he knew how the other boy took his – strong, with just a dash of milk and two and a half sugars. He couldn't help it, he'd spent the last seven years watching Harry Potter in one way or another, and it was hard not to notice such things when you were glaring at a person as they fixed their breakfast and trying to plot a way to trap them in an enchanted suit of armour without being caught. He slammed the tea down on the table in front of Potter and picked up his own, breathing out harshly through his nose. He was not amused by this at all, but he'd much rather – if it came to it – that Potter punched him instead of Blaise. Blaise was an idiot, but Blaise was his friend, and at least he himself had done some things over the years that _deserved _a bit of violence in reaction.

"You," Potter mumbled, staring at his red mug with the chip in the rim. "You just fucking made me tea."

"Yes," Draco said, in the special voice he reserved for people of dubious intelligence, which was mostly everyone bar his family, Susan and Pansy, and Blaise – occasionally, anyway. "Because you look like you need one."

"Sucking up, are we? Is that why you stopped me cracking my knuckles open on that arsehole's face?"

"Oh, for pity's –_ no. _I can't fucking stand you, Potter, why would I want to suck up to you?"

_Many reasons, _Draco inwardly thought, and tried not to wince too obviously. Knowing that you owed a lot to a person was one thing, but swallowing your pride to acknowledge that was another. "I just thought that, seeing as you and She-Weasel have clearly had some form of lover's tiff, you'd need to talk to somebody who'll be honest with you. And that won't be Granger and Weasley who pander to your every whim, and it certainly won't be Finnigan because he's quite frankly a moron, and Brown will attribute it to one of your undoubtedly numerous sexual failings. Susan is, er, well, she's just _Susan, _and Lisa would squeak like that horrid sneaky pet rat of hers if you even spoke to her. Judging by the fact you hate Pansy potentially more than you hate me and you just tried to beat up Blaise, I'm your best shot. You know, seeing as I don't actually like you and thus have no reason to lie to make you feel better."

Potter glared at him, eyes unnaturally green in the kitchen's dim lighting, clearly wondering whether to insult Draco, throw the tea at him, or both – or, indeed, neither. Eventually, after Draco spent a good while glaring back, the raven-haired boy sighed and looked away.

"How did you know that Ginny and I were having trouble, anyway?"

"Please," Draco snorted, cautiously lowering himself into the bench opposite. Well, at least a surreal and ultimately pointless chat with Potter would be more entertaining than circuit board diagrams. "Gryffindors wear their emotions on their faces, plus our not-Italian-at-all Weasley was out of here like you'd lit a wand up her arse. Ergo, trouble."

"She dumped me," Potter suddenly blurted, then looked rather startled himself at how easily the admission had slipped out. There was silence, for a minute, and a strange, tenuous sense of... Not peace, exactly, because Draco never felt peaceful around Potter. But he didn't feel such a strong urge to yank his brain out through his nose at the minute, either. Which was so odd that he had to do something to make it go away.

"Shame," Draco said insincerely. "Probably for the best, anyway, you'd have had frightful looking children. Not as frightful as Granger and her unfortunate offspring with her equally unfortunate boyfriend, though-"

"_Christ, _Malfoy," Potter suddenly shouted, and, yes, here came the tea, smashing against the cabinet behind Draco's shoulder. He jumped, alarmed, as hot liquid splashed down his left arm, sealing his shirt to the Mark, scalding and incredibly uncomfortable. "Is there ever a moment when you're _not _a complete prick?"

"No," Draco sneered, proud of how his voice didn't shake at all, forcing himself not to pluck at the material with his other hand. "Sorry to disappoint. If you want to carry on talking to me about your failed relationship, go right ahead, but I would have thought you'd be aware that you would get nasty – or sensible, as I call them – answers."

"Forget it," Potter muttered, standing up and storming out of the room. "I'd rather have Ron and Hermione _pandering to me _than stay here and have you be insulting and full of shit, like usual."

"Good!" Draco called petulantly at his retreating back, though wondered why, deep inside, he felt a little disappointed. With himself, with the way he always said the wrong thing and self-sabotaged like a fool, but especially with the way he'd ended up alone. Again.

* * *

><p><strong>Er, yeah, hello. Just a short author's note this time to say sorry - as I always do - that this is so late. I've had a lot of stuff going on in my life recently, and to be honest I either couldn't find the time or the energy to write. But things are looking up, as they are wont to do, so here's an update for you :) Thanks as always to swan-scones, columcille, Insane Worm, sunneedee, and CaramelAriana for their wonderful reviews (I promise I'll reply personally soon, I really will.) Here's hoping you enjoy, as always, and I've already started work on the next chapter, so fingers crossed for not so long a wait this time. <strong>

**Ciao!**

**_Cherry_ **


	6. Chapter 6

"Alright, so, I thought we'd do something a little bit seasonal today," Their Muggle Studies professor began in the last class of the week, hopping up to sit cross legged in her chair. Her name was Professor Paxton, and she barely looked old enough to be out of Hogwarts, but Harry liked her because she was usually brimming over with enthusiasm about the things she taught about, like a younger, more sensible Arthur Weasley. However, because he already knew about most of the things she was talking about, Harry couldn't help but occasionally drift off. He'd done so this afternoon, doodling a skeleton and some bats at the side of his parchment, in an attempt to make things feel a little more spooky, because it was Hallowe'en tomorrow – not that you'd know it. The Yorkshire weather was holding up its end of the bargain, though, brooding and dark, but it wasn't quite the same looking at it through a window rather than an enchanted ceiling. Even Hermione seemed a little bit droopy, and that was saying something, because usually learning filled her with unrelenting good humour. Now, though, Paxton had Harry's attention.

"Seasonal?" Parkinson asked disdainfully, playing with her quill. "How do you mean seasonal?"

"Well," Paxton began, undeterred in the face of such disinterest. "We're going to take a look at the Muggle traditions of Hallowe'en. I thought we could have more of an open-ended discussion, however, so perhaps one of you with a non-Magical background would like to start?"

Harry looked around, interested now. For once, it wasn't Hermione who spoke first, but Seamus, straightening up in his seat next to Susan and clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Well, er, one of the things me and my cousins used to do was dress up and go trick-or-treating, just round the neighbours and things," he said, as if unsure that this was what Paxton was looking for. She smiled encouragingly, however, and Seamus turned to the rest of the class, who, Harry had just realised, were more than half Pureblood. "You sing a song or tell a joke or somethin', and if they like you they give you sweets or money. Though you didn't get so much money when I was younger. And if they didn't give you anything, it was sort of widely accepted that you got to play a prank on them."

"Pranks?" Zabini said, leaning forward in his seat. "What sort of pranks?"

"Trust you to be interested in that, Zabini," Susan said, but she laughed, too, and nobody seemed too offended.

"Most common's throwin' eggs," said Seamus, warming to his theme now. "Or toilet roll. My cousin Fergus took it a bit too far once though and wrote 'Stingy Bastards' on his neighbour's window in mud."

"That's horrible!" Lisa said, blonde hair swinging as she turned and stared at Seamus, horrified.

"Well, they'd tried to give us toothpaste and sugar-free chewing gum!"

"Were they, by any chance, dentists?" Hermione asked, to general amusement. Paxton looked pleased to see her class getting along, for once – on more than one occasion one of the Slytherins had stormed out because they'd gotten so frustrated at not understanding, and both Ron and Susan were often vocal about their confusion. Even Lisa Turpin, one of the most intelligent and also the most quiet, had been known to complain on occasion. Hermione, Harry and Seamus were about the only ones who didn't have any trouble.

"So that's the sort of thing that you lot did, then, when you were kids on Hallowe'en?" Parkinson demanded, looking genuinely confused.

"Why, what did you do?" Lavender shot back in defense of Seamus' story. There still wasn't much hope of friendship there, Harry knew, and he just hoped that they wouldn't start another argument in the middle of class, if only for Paxton's sake. For once, though, Parkinson didn't seem inclined to get snappy.

"Well, my family would usually throw a dinner party, but not fancy dress or anything," she said, as if the whole idea was below her. "But my mum always bought into the whole Samhain thing, so we'd set places for dead relatives and all that. And then we'd start a bonfire in the garden and somebody would sing some dull old song. I didn't really enjoy it much, though, because it was all quite boring. The Muggle version sounds a bit more fun." She said, then her face went shockingly pale and she bit fiercely on her lip as she realised what she'd said. There was a startled silence for a minute, before the world began turning again and everybody seemed to decide that no, surely Pansy Parkinson had _not _just admitted that something Muggle sounded like fun. Even Zabini and Malfoy looked as though they were still trying to process the last few minutes.

"In fact, Pansy, I'm glad you brought up Samhain, because many Muggle Hallowe'en traditions are in fact rooted in the more traditional Samhain practices," Paxton said keenly. "Such as the carving of Jack-o-Lanterns and even dressing up. And you're quite right, it is often seen as a festival of darkness, and many use it as an opportunity to contact the dead."

"No need for that at Hogwarts, you just need to turn around and there's a ghost sitting next to you at the feast," Ron joked, and Paxton smiled.

"Yes, it is rather different in the magical world. For Muggles, however, ghosts are still widely a matter of contestation – many don't believe they exist. In fact, Hallowe'en has become very commercialised. Often, ghost stories are told just for their scare-factor."

"But ghosts aren't _scary_!" Malfoy suddenly burst out, and everybody turned to look at him. He flushed hotly. "Well, they're _not_. It's just stupid to tell stories about them that are going to scare people, because -"

"Yeah, but Malfoy," Harry found himself saying, wanting to prove the other boy wrong. "You only think they aren't scary because you grew up knowing they existed. When things happen that can't be explained, it often scares people to think that there's a paranormal force behind it. I mean, I was alarmed as hell when I first saw Nearly Headless Nick."

"Some Gryffindor, then," Malfoy retorted, but the laughter of the others stopped Harry's reply short. He supposed it would seem silly for someone to be afraid of ghosts if you'd grown up knowing they were harmless, but even _still. _Harry had spent a fair share of his Hallowe'ens scared senseless in the darkness in the cupboard under the stairs, terrified that one of the many ghosts Dudley had taken great delight in describing was going to show up. Harry settled for narrowing his eyes at Malfoy, who narrowed his right back before turning to listen to something Parkinson was muttering at him under her breath.

"What about things like bobbing for apples, are those based on Samhain traditions?" Hermione asked their professor, ever the one with a question.

"Bobbing for _what_?" Lisa asked in her usual mild way, brow creasing. "Bobbing for _apples_?!"

"Don't tell me you've never bobbed for apples!" Ron said animatedly. "Even _I've _done that!"

"Well, my Hallowe'ens were usually spent in a manner much more similar to Pansy's," Lisa said primly, blushing a little. "So no, I haven't done it. What _is _it?"

"You put apples in a basin of water," Hermione started to explain, and Harry was pleasantly surprised to see her getting excited about something, when for the whole day she'd seemed out of sorts. "And everybody takes it in turns to try and get their teeth into one and pull it out by bobbing in and out of the basin. You have your hands tied behind your back, usually, to stop you from cheating. But some people think it isn't very hygienic, so sometimes you drop a fork into the water or tie them on a string and bite up for one instead."

"Sounds fun," Malfoy said, the tone of his voice illustrating that it sounded anything but, at least to him. Paxton decided to ignore him and answer Hermione's question, instead.

"Well, Hermione, I'm afraid that bobbing for apples is, in fact, a tradition that goes back to the Roman conquering of Britain_. _They brought the apple tree here, you see, and that was a representation of Pomona, their goddess of fruit trees – and, funnily enough, also a goddess of fertility. The Celts here believed that the pentagram, which is coincidentally the shape of an apple's seeds when the fruit is sliced in half, was a fertility symbol. So the belief began that apples could be used to determine a marriage, and young unmarried people would try to bite into an apple during the celebrations to determine who would be the first to get married, this being the first person to manage to get a bite. Young girls often put the apple they bobbed under their pillow, too, because they might dream of their true love."

"How interesting," Hermione said, sounding utterly sincere. Harry caught Ron's eye and rolled his own, but both of them grinned, because they knew they wouldn't change Hermione for the world. She went on to ask another question, drawing Paxton into a long winded debate, and Harry zoned out again. But all of this talk of Hallowe'en had given him an idea, and he just had to wait until tomorrow to put it into action.

* * *

><p><em>It was too dark to see anything particularly clearly, but he still knew where he was. If he reached out an arm, he would touch the dining room door, if he took three steps back he'd be under one of their grand light fittings in the hallway, and if he turned and walked forward a few metres he could be out onto the wide, sweeping drive in seconds. He was in the manor, but everything felt wrong, as if subtle things had been moved around and altered to make him feel off-kilter. <em>

"_Mother?" he called tremulously, hating the way his voice echoed, reverbating around the room. "Father? Where are you?"_

_The double doors to the dining room swung open, and neither of his parents was standing there, but his Aunt Bellatrix instead. Mouth dry with dread, he tried to ask her where everybody had gone, but no sound was forthcoming. _

"_Oh, Draco, it's you," she said dismissively. "Nothing better to do than lurk around in the dark, I suppose?"_

"_Actually, I-" His voice sounded weak to his own ears, and Bellatrix laughed. He'd always hated her laugh, which had none of the pleasant sweetness of his mother's nor, indeed, the sanity. It seemed to go on for far too long, and then she was shoving a tray of watery, grey, sludgy food into his hands._

"_Make yourself useful, darling, take this down to the cellar, with you? After all, you can't get any use out of the dead, so we may as well keep feeding them. Chop chop."_

_The doors were slammed in his face with such force that he was surprised he didn't fall flat on his backside. Trembling so hard the dishes on the tray rattled, he turned and began to walk slowly to the drawing room and nudged the handle down with one bony hip, staggering slightly as he room was empty, but he didn't like to give too much thought to whether or not he could hear hissing from the gloom. He managed to stick close to the wall and then hovered by the top step to the cellar, swallowing hard. There was no sound at all from the shadows below, so he took one small step, then another. Something ran over his foot and he looked down quickly, seeing the long, pink tail of a rat disappearing off, accompanied by loud squeaks. Rats? Alright, so they kept _people_ in their cellar, but they most certainly didn't keep _rats -

_And then the hissing began to get louder behind him, and he understood. Rats were surely suitable food for a gigantic, quasi-magical snake_, _and he didn't want to turn around, and the squeaking was getting louder and more distressed, and the only thing he could do was walk as quickly as possible down the stairs into the dank cellar and face what waited for him there -_

"Oh, bugger!"

Draco jerked awake, breathing short and sharp, and looked around. He was in he and Blaise's bedroom, not the manor, and the light outside told him that it was still before dawn. This, in turn, led him to wonder why somebody was creeping around in his room, because Blaise was snoring softly from underneath his own duvet.

"Pansy?" He hissed, sitting up. It was indeed Pansy hunched over at the foot of the bed, clutching something in her hands. She looked up, disappointed.

"Damn it, I woke you," she grumbled under her breath, straightening up. "I'm possibly the least cunning Slytherin I've ever met."

"What the hell are you _doing_?" Draco demanded. Pansy was still in her pyjamas, the ones that she never let anybody but those closest to her see – fluffy, soft flannelette things, in a soft pale pink. He didn't doubt that she was going to get changed into something suitably provocative and dark before the others woke up, but she sometimes brought out these pyjamas on the odd occasion that she wanted to take a break from her vampy, intimidating image.

"Happy Hallowe'en," Pansy said with a small smile, holding up her hands. Lisa's pet rat dangled by the tail from her fingers, scrabbling wildly and squeaking, frightened. "I only wanted to spook you a bit."

"You didn't half," Draco said darkly, thinking. The sound of the rat had certainly influenced the turning that his dream took, but it had been bad enough before. His heart was still hammering, but he tried to school his expression into something more neutral. "Fuck, Pansy, I can't believe you _kidnapped _Lisa's rat!"

"I didn't!" she protested, dropping down onto the end of his bed with a sigh. "She's taken a horrible liking to me. She's named Cotton and she's repulsive but for some reason she always sneaks up beside me while I'm sleeping. It's a good thing we keep the door shut or Granger's psycho cat would have the stupid thing swallowed down in one gulp."

Draco half-smiled at that. He was trying his hardest not to let him, but Crookshanks was worming his way into his affections, mainly because it was one of the most hateful, grumpy animals he'd ever met. It glared at everyone and everything that came under its gaze, and had taken a swipe at Weasley's face a few days ago that had left a deep scratch across his nose, much to the amusement of everyone bar Weasley himself.

"Anyway, what's up with you?" Pansy said, depositing Cotton into her breast pocket. For someone who claimed it was repulsive, she certainly had no qualms about handling the rat, which poked its whiskers out, now perfectly at ease. "When you woke up you looked like you were about to be sick. In fact, you still don't look any great shakes."

"Nothing's the matter, really. I'm fine." Draco said quietly, lying back down and turning onto his side so Pansy wouldn't see his face. "Just startled at you coming in here and attempting to scare me with a domesticated, fat rat in the middle of the night."

"It's five thirty, Draco, and I couldn't sleep. It's weird not being in Hogwarts on Hallowe'en, not going to sleep with a Jack-o-Lantern in the window and thinking about pumpkin pie and cinnamon toast... And stop giving me bullshit, darling, I _know_ you."

There was a small hand shoving at him, and then Pansy was climbing in beside him, feet freezing against his calves as she tucked herself up. He rolled to face her, their noses almost brushing. All he could make out of her were a set of startlingly blue eyes and her upturned nose, and she raised her eyebrows.

"Well?"

He tried to connect his thoughts and think of a way to explain his nightmare without coming off like a complete and utter sad case while Pansy wriggled next to him, attempting to get comfortable in the narrow single cot.

"I was – hang on. Pansy, is Cotton still in this bed?"

A pause.

"No."

There was movement under the blanket and then a cold, wet nose pressed under his chin as paws scratched at his neck, and he sighed, closing his eyes. Pansy was silent for a minute, but he thought he detected a faint hint of ruefullness in the way she eventually let out her breath.

"Alright, I'll get rid of her. But then I'm coming back."

She slid out of bed and padded softly across the room, creeping out of the door. Blaise was still dead to the world, mouth open and arm flung dramatically out from under the duvet – he had his mother's flair for the theatrical, and you couldn't argue that he didn't. But the quiet rhythm of his breathing helped calm Draco, as did the soft feel of Pansy's flannelette pyjamas when she came back and wrapped herself around him, arms tight around his bare midriff. He simply let her hold him for a minute, feeling his heartbeat slow. Pansy wasn't very good with comforting words, but when you really, truly knew her, the way she could hold you almost always made you feel like everything would be alright.

"I was dreaming about the manor," he eventually said quietly, when he felt ready to talk.

"Appropriate start to Hallowe'en," she mumbled in his ear, drawing back when he turned his head sharply to glare at her. "I'm sorry, Draco, but it is. You know I hate that place, it gives me the creeps."

"Yes, well, less disparaging comments about my ancestral family home, thank you," he said, then winced. "But I suppose you're right. It's not been the most pleasant place, the last few years. I was – I was in the main entryway, and Bellatrix came out of the dining room."

Pansy stayed silent this time, eyes wide and concerned under her neat, black brows. She shifted a little, taking his left hand in hers and pulling it up onto his chest. He turned his face away, their twined hands resting over his heart, and tried not to worry too much. It had only been a dream, after all, even if it had been based in reality.

"And she gave me a tray of food to take to the prisoners we had in the cellar, but I was scared, so I hesitated on the stairs. And a rat ran across my foot, and then I dreamt that the Dark Lord's snake was behind me and I had nowhere to go but down, and I could hear the rat getting frightened because it was obviously about to become snake food, and then you woke me thumping about with your poor attempt at espionage."

Now that it was out in the open, Draco had to admit that it didn't seem so awful. Well, of course it would always be awful – his family had kept his classmates and a weak, ailing old man locked in their cellar for weeks, and that wasn't even the end of the horrors that had taken place in that house. But the dream _itself_ hadn't as much power to shake him, even though he still felt slightly sick.

"That's horrid," Pansy said sympathetically, her voice much clearer without the influence of her usual morning cigarette. "I hate to say it, but your Aunt Bellatrix was one mad cow."

"Oh, no, say it all you like," Draco said hearitly, snuggling down further under the duvet as he turned to face her. "Pans, do _you _ever have bad dreams?"

She stilled, hesitating. Draco almost regretted asking, were it not for the fact that this was Pansy and he was probably closer to her than he was to anybody else, barring his mother, in the entire world. She eventually coughed, rolling onto her side and away from him, but snuggling backwards so that they were spooned together, pulling his arm round her middle. That was something they had in common – the way neither liked to look people in the face while saying things that made them vulnerable. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling the smoky, slightly bitter smell of her skin, and waited.

"Sometimes." She suddenly said, voice low. "Sometimes I dream about trying to give Potter up in the Great Hall. And that was a nightmare enough, everyone looking at me like I was Voldemort's personal assistant for trying to save my neck, save the people I cared about. I was scared, I just – anyway, let's not's talk about that. When I dream about it, it's always worse. I dream about us getting escorted back to the dungeons, but then when everybody leaves to fight or to escape, they leave me alone in the common room and they lock me in and I can't get out and I always wake up clawing at the wall."

"Merlin, Pans."

"It's alright, though. I only dream it about once a month now. I used to dream it all the time. Now I dream more about my parents going to Azkaban and I wake up and for a minute I think it isn't real, but then I remember that it is and I'm the only one left."

For a moment, Draco thought Pansy was going to cry, and he mused that he'd probably seen her cry more since they'd come here than he ever had before in his life – well, since they'd been about six years old, anyway. But thankfully – or perhaps not – Blaise chose then to sit up, irritation written all over his features. Clearly they'd woken him with all of their talk.

"Do you know what _I _dream about? Sometimes _I _dream that I've not got bloody annoyingly loud and insatiably chatty best friends who wake me up at all hours of the morning chatting drivel."

He stood up, though, and came over to them and began to climb into the bed, forcing Draco right to the opposite edge and sandwiching Pansy in the middle.

"Excuse me," she laughed, voice muffled against Blaise's chest. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Joining in, since sleep is now but a distant memory," Blaise grumbled, but he was fighting against a smile. "Twats."

"We love you too, arsehole," Draco managed through a mouthful of Pansy's short dark hair, and they both laughed. And, curled up tight against his two best friends and trying valiantly not to tip over the edge of his bed, Draco felt almost content. It might not be the beginning of a Hogwarts Hallowe'en, but it still felt like a good one.

* * *

><p>Even though he had a plan, Harry – standing all alone in the middle of the kitchen in the late afternoon that Saturday - wasn't quite sure where to start. He'd cleared the table and turned on the bright over-head light, but now he was paused with his hands on his hips, thinking.<p>

"Alright, mate?" Ron asked, sauntering in wearing his school jumper. For some reason, everybody had taken to wearing them nearly every day over their ordinary clothes – Harry liked wearing the sweater because he liked the connection it gave him to Hogwarts, and he knew for a fact that Ron wore his because he'd once overheard Hermione commenting to Susan that she liked his shoulders in it. The others, especially the Slytherins, were a mystery, especially because Parkinson was so elfin that the cuffs reached almost to the tips of her fingers, and the thin, sagging material – while unusually warm – was not exactly the height of fashion. Still, it showed willing, and thinking about it reinforced Harry's plan. "You look pensive."

"Yeah," Harry said, pushing his fringe back. "I think we should all do dinner together. A Hallowe'en thing – try and make it _seasonal_, like Paxton was talking about, because we can't have a feast like at Hogwarts."

Ron didn't instantly talk, which showed that he was thinking about what Harry had suggested. The redhead folded his arms, leaning against the fridge, and chewed thoughtfully at his lower lip.

"Right," he said slowly. "Right, ok. It's a good plan."

"I thought so -"

"Well, a good plan in theory, anyway."

"Wait – what?"

Ron sighed, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and sitting down on the end of the bench, taking a large, crunchy-sounding bite before running his hands through his hair.

"I think it'd be a really good plan if we had enough supplies for that kind of thing," Ron said, slouching forward. "Or if all of us actually enjoyed spending mealtimes together."

"Well we have to start sometime, don't we?" Harry countered, hopping up onto the counter. "I mean, I checked – we've got enough food to scrape something together, and there's apples, I thought we could do bobbing or something."

"Can we drown the Slytherins if we do?" Ron asked brightly, then laughed when he saw Harry trying to fight a grin. "Alright. I suppose we could ask our house elf for help – they'd nick some stuff from the Hogwarts kitchen if we asked, wouldn't they? And they'd be more than happy to keep their involvement secret from Hermione, which bodes well for us."

Harry laughed out-right at that. Yes, it certainly did. Their house-elf was a particularly timid one, and was terrified of Hermione, who had become famous amongst the Hogwarts house-elves. It adored the Slytherins, though, seemingly thinking that at least _they _knew how to conduct themselves to an elf – this consisted of Parkinson bossing it around to no end about the stains on her dresses and Malfoy demanding higher quality teabags. Who knew what ridiculous things Zabini had requested – Harry had barely looked at him since The Incident on the day that Ginny had visited, which was almost a fortnight ago. In all fairness, Harry was by now almost ready to admit that he'd over-reacted slightly. Zabini was a prat, so it was utterly unsurprising that he'd said something so awful to try and get a rise out of Harry and had, unfortunately, succeeded. After his ill-fated attempt to cheer Harry up, though, Malfoy must have had a word, because more than anything else the Slytherins seemed to be keeping themselves to themselves. This was a more-than-welcome change, and had Harry feeling – dare he say it – slightly hopeful. Well, they were all still morons, but they'd made Harry think that maybe they could be reasonable morons.

"Right, we'd better make a start," Harry said. "Do you know our house-elf's name so we can call it here?"

"Sadly, I do not," Ron said mournfully. "I keep making a note of finding out so I can get them to bring me the odd sandwich, but I always bloody forget."

Harry nodded decisively, jumping down again and squaring his shoulders.

"Looks like a team effort, then."

* * *

><p>"... All that, yes. And a pumpkin," Susan said finally, standing in front of their house-elf – who, it transpired, was called Binky. She was wearing a pink and white gingham tea-towel toga, and looked nervously around the kitchen for Hermione, whom Ron had managed to distract for the time being. Assembled instead were Seamus, Harry, Susan, Lavender and Lisa, who had drawn up a rough list of things to be fetched from the Hogwarts kitchen – including, but not limited to, plain flour, sugar (because Seamus had a rotten sweet tooth and they were almost out), cinnamon, cloves, chicken, and the aforementioned pumpkin – and were, Harry dreaded to think, more than excited about his idea. It was going to end in carnage, he could tell.<p>

"Will Mistress require any help from Binky when she returns, then?" Binky asked. "Or will Binky be free to hide from the – the other Mistress? The one with the hats."

"Oh, no, Binky, once you've dropped our things off you're more than free to go," Susan winked conspiratorially, straightening up. Binky, wearing a relieved expression, popped out of sight. "Nice elf. Very respectful. No wonder Draco likes her so."

"_Draco _likes having somebody run around after him like a blue-arsed fly," Seamus corrected, fetching a rolling pin and an apron from the pantry. "Speaking of, where is the dickhead? I'm sure Harry wanted this to be an _inclusive _evening."

"I did, actually," Harry said, folding his arms and leaning back against the range. "Susan, do you want to go and fetch him and the other two?"

She shrugged one round, freckled shoulder, hair slipping down her back, and smiled a little at him.

"If you want me to. You're the boss."

"I'm not the _boss_, it's just -"

"Harry, calm down," Lavender laughed, as Binky popped back up carrying a pumpkin larger than herself and she rushed to help. "She only means that it was your idea."

"Right, well," Harry said stiffly. The last thing he wanted was to be made out as if he was trying to take charge – he'd had an idea, but he wanted everyone to run with it. If people were doing things because he said, then that was the wrong reason to do them. "Just – just go and tell them it's all hands on deck, but one stupid remark, or one step out of line, and they're out, ok?"

Susan saluted and sashayed off, and Harry absently moved to help Binky, who had left and now came back again with a burlap sack filled with the rest of their supplies. He wondered if the Slytherins would bother to come and join them, and he hoped – oddly – that they would.

If only to prove that they _could_.

* * *

><p>Draco was reading in his room when Susan arrived, wearing a warm smile that dimmed only slightly when she received a glare from Pansy, sitting with Blaise on the room's other bed. Blaise was writing a letter to his mother, while Pansy was trying – yet failing – to read through her Charms textbook, her eyes flicking over to the tobacco tin by the foot of the bed with ever increasing frequency.<p>

"Susan," Draco said carefully, closing the book he was reading onto his index finger to keep his place. "What's up?"

"I've come to ask you all to come downstairs, we're making dinner together and -"

"No thanks." Pansy said immediately, casting her eyes back over her parchment. "Other things to do."

"We've got a pumpkin," Susan continued, directing her missive towards Draco as she leaned against the doorframe and threw her weight out onto one hip. "And Lisa's managed to dredge up some paper so she's Transfiguring decorations. We just thought it might be nice to have everyone together, since we're missing out on the feast at Hogwarts. Still, I shan't force you."

There was an awkward, stilted silence for a minute. Draco knew that Pansy's ears had perked up as soon as Susan had said _pumpkin –_ she was ridiculously enthusiastic about decorations. Even Blaise looked a little more excited than he otherwise would have, as it gave him something else to do than correspond with his mother, with whom his relationship was good at times, and near murderous at others. Still, Draco knew that either of his friends would rather drink the Draught of Living Death than ever say 'yes, please' to Susan's face, so he decided to do it for them.

"Alright," he said slowly, setting his book aside. "We'll be down in a few minutes."

"Great!" Susan grinned at him, spinning on her heel and hurrying off. Draco turned to find Pansy and Blaise giving him filthy looks, looking near enough like twins. Draco rolled his eyes and didn't even bother to give them more ammunition, simply got up off his bed and went to put his book away in his trunk. Then he went over to the mirror, still trying to pretend the terse silence didn't bother him, and examined his reflection. In the dim light of the bedroom, his skin looked almost grey, with darker bruise-like shadows under his eyes. His hair, while no longer slicked back, still couldn't be called messy by any stretch of the imagination. However, judging by how little sleep he was getting and how often he was driven to run his fingers through his white-blond locks, he was still...

"Hideous," he muttered under his breath. He'd have to do, however, because he doubted Pansy or Blaise would help make him look any better.

"Yes, she is," Pansy said snidely, clearly referring to Susan as she stood up and smoothed her dark skirt. "As if I want to go and help her carve a stupid pumpkin."

"You know you do," Draco said without turning around, catching Blaise's eye in the mirror and silently imploring him to be on side for once. "If only because you love any activity that involves wielding a sharp instrument."

"That and it stops you having to work," Blaise said, though he didn't sound too pleased by it. Draco flashed him a grin in the mirror, before turning around and looking for something warm to put on. His Slytherin jumper was neatly folded over the hard backed chair in the corner, and he hesitated for a moment before giving in and dragging it over his head. If he was going to take part in this happy household charade, he might as well go the whole way with it. He'd never done anything by half – not antagonising others, not following in his father's footsteps, not being blind to everything until it was too late. Why should he start now? When he turned around again, both Pansy and Blaise were sitting on the bed again, still scowling, but both were now wearing their jumpers, too.

"We're only doing this for you," Pansy grumbled. "And the possibility of decent food."

"I highly doubt it'll be decent," Blaise joined in. "But it's better than sitting writing a letter to my harlot of a mother."

"If that's harlotry, sign me up for a brothel," Pansy replied, and Draco bit back a relieved smile at her change of subject. "I mean it! The jewels on that woman... I'd sell my _soul_."

"My mother already has," Blaise smirked. "Besides, Pansy, you're implying that you have a soul to begin with."

"Bastard." Pansy said, but she smiled grimly and stood up. "Alright, then. Let's go and take part in this ridiculous farce and have done."

* * *

><p>When they got to the kitchen, Draco almost turned on his heel and sprinted back to his bedroom again, and it was only Pansy and Blaise behind him which stopped him from doing so. The first thing that had appeared in Draco's line of sight was Seamus Finnigan, covered nearly from head to toe in flour and looking as if he would gladly do the same to somebody else. And, true enough, Susan and Brown were both looking as if they'd had a sudden attack of dandruff. Turpin was reading a cookbook while absently waving her wand at the stove, where three pots were erratically stirring themselves and splashing water and gravy everwhere. A chicken was roasting in the oven, and Granger was waving a rolling pin threateningly under a laughing Weasley's nose. There were black paper bats fluttering around the room, lingering by the lights and in the corners, and Potter was sitting – oh good grief, he was sitting <em>on <em>the table, throwing an apple from hand to hand and looking amused. Draco couldn't help but suppress a shudder at the complete and utter lack of manners, but by that point Susan had noticed him and there really was no turning back.

"Draco!" She said, sounding so obviously relieved that he took offence.

"I said I was coming," he said, crossing his arms and stepping into the room, aware that his housemates right behind him made him look as though he was flanked by the world's most pathetic but most aesthetically pleasing bodyguards. "Did you think I'd lied?"

"Well, you never know," Brown said, shoving her hair away from her face with the back of her wrist as she looked up at he and the others – cautious, but not particularly inflammatory. "It is _you_."

"We just couldn't resist your delicate angelic charms," drawled Pansy sarcastically, stalking around the table and nudging Susan rather harder than necessary with her shoulder. "I believe I was promised a pumpkin."

Although Draco knew that Pansy was only here under duress and that she still didn't like Susan very much, his Hufflepuff friend's face lit up. She opened a notebook and shoved it over in front of Pansy, indicating the sketches somebody had made of pumpkin carvings. Pansy studied them for a moment, and then threw the book over her shoulder, rolled up her sleeves and pulled out her wand, instantly setting to work with Severing Charms. The others all paused for a moment, watching her in clear amazement that she was actually co-operating, but they ducked their heads when Pansy threw up her own and glared around. Chatter started up again so fast and loud it was almost alarming, and the spoons stirring pots on the stove sped up even more. Draco shoved his hands in to his tailored trouser pockets and leaned against the fridge, content just to watch for now. He was a terrible cook, and it seemed that the others had that covered in any case. Even Blaise had tentatively gone to help Lisa, adding his magic to hers and making the pots on the stove a lot more stable.

"Smile, Malfoy, make your arse jealous," Potter called as he hopped down from the table and came over to check the chicken, smirking in a way that made Draco itch to ball his hands into fists.

"I'll have you know my arse is perfect and nothing on this earth could make it jealous," he replied, aware that he was being more than ridiculous. Potter simply snorted and adjusted the oven, straightening up again and going to help Granger roll out pastry, but for once, Draco didn't feel excluded, and was in fact grateful that his instinct to make himself the centre of attention had been one of the many casualties of the war. It was much more interesting to watch the others, the way that they moved around each other with caution and nobody laughed too long or too loud, but there was something more settled than previously in the way everyone held themselves. He wondered if this meant that their relationships were beginning to thaw, or at least that there would be less arguing from now on. And, in a way, that thought made him brave enough to approach Susan on her other side and begin to help her butter bread, quiet and subdued – but content.

* * *

><p>Some time later, Harry sat with Hermione at the table, using their wands to wash dishes as the room slowly filled with the scent of the apple pie they'd put in the oven just before dinner. The meal, amazingly enough, had been a success – it hadn't devolved into a food fight, for one thing, but for another there had even been a smattering of conversation – stilted and occasionally interrupted by someone or other being rude, but conversation nonetheless. He couldn't help but smile – he felt cheered, somehow, as if things were finally beginning to look up.<p>

"I'm proud of you, Harry," Hermione suddenly said, looking up at him with a bright smile. "This was a good idea."

"Always the tone of surprise," he joked, and Hermione rolled her eyes, nudging him gently with her elbow as she levitated a soapy gravy boat in and out of the water in the sink.

"You know what I mean. And I'm proud, too, that... Well, that you've just pushed on with things today, I suppose. Hallowe'en must be so difficult for you."

Harry sent a quick drying charm at the now clean gravy boat hovering in mid-air before sending it sailing into its correct place, thinking how best to answer Hermione.

"Well, yes and no," he said slowly, leaning back against the table with his elbows. "I mean, I never knew that my parents had died on Hallowe'en until I came to Hogwarts and found out the truth about what happened to them. And Hallowe'en before that had never been such great shakes, so it hadn't been a significant day. I don't know," he sighed. "Sometimes I feel like I should mourn a bit more, but then other times I think they wouldn't have wanted me to fuss."

Hermione nodded solemnly, getting up to drain the sink by hand then turning to face him.

"Maybe you could do both," she said gently, before ducking into the pantry and coming back with a tall, thick altar candle. "Light this for them, in remembrance of the dead, and then come with me to the sitting room to see what the others are up to."

Harry nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat, and went to Hermione's side. They stood together by the kitchen window, looking out into the pitch dark yard, as Hermione placed the candle on the window ledge and stood back. Harry raised his wand and touched it to the candle wick, muttering "Incendio". A flame sparked into life and a small hand slipped into his, and they stood together silently a minute longer before a sudden knock on the yard door startled them both senseless.

"Who the bloody hell can that be?" Hermione grumbled, detaching herself to answer the door as she shook her head.

"Trick or treat!" A high, clear voice giggled, and Harry turned just in time to see Gemma Farley step inside. She was dressed impeccably as always, in a soft black wrap-around dress, high black leather boots and a fawn trench coat – the only thing even slightly unusual was the set of black sequined cat-ears atop her corkscrew curls.

"It's nice to see you, Gemma," he began, running a hand through his hair and hoping he didn't look too confused. "But, er... What exactly are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd pop up," Gemma began as Hermione took her coat. "I know it was pouring down last night so that's why you lot never showed up for your usual Friday night piss-up, but I – against all my better judgment – missed you all. And it _is_ Hallowe'en, which to my lovely foster-family means locking the doors and an early night. Superstitious, this Yorkshire lot," she said conspiratorially. "Is this quite all right?"

"Of course," Hermione jumped in. "It isn't as if we get many other visitors. Would you like a drink?"

"It's alright, darling, I brought my own."

Gemma set her bag down on the table, pulling out two bottles of Firewhiskey and waving them tantalizingly. Harry grinned, and the three of them began to walk towards the hallway, before tapping on the window drew Harry back. He motioned for the girls to carry on, turning to see a grey Hogwarts owl rapping the window with its beak. He carefully let it in, helping it set down the cumbersome package on the dining table. It burbled softly in the way that owls were wont to do before delicately nipping at his fingers and heading off again without even waiting for a treat, the motion of its wings causing the candle flame to gutter. Harry shut the window again, distractedly reading the note that had come with the parcel.

_ Dear Harry,_

_ I know you probably won't reply, but that's alright. I thought since we hadn't spoken for a few weeks this might help, but Ron says you're not mad at me too much anymore, just the situation. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. And more than that I hope you're well. Miss you loads._

_ Best,_

_Gin_

Frowning, Harry leant over and untied the parcel, finding a box of treacle tarts. He couldn't help but grin – either Ginny had snaffled them from the feast or had done exactly as they had earlier and begged assistance from the house elves. Either way, Harry appreciated the thought, and – although he still missed Ginny and was miserable over the loss of what they could have been - resolved to send her a quick note to say thanks. Picking up the box so that he could share with the others, Harry headed to the living room, humming under his breath for the first time in what felt like forever.

* * *

><p>"What the bloody <em>hell<em>?"

Harry knew that the dinner had gone well, but not _this _well. When he strode through the door to the living room, box on his hip, the last thing he had expected was to find almost everybody sitting together as Susan Brown bobbed for an apple in a Conjured basin. Gemma was holding the girl's hair back, laughing as she struggled to latch her teeth onto an apple.

"Oh, alright, Harry," Ron smiled distractedly, swerving to avoid a splash of water as Susan finally resurfaced with a Pink Lady between her teeth. Malfoy, seated in the armchair directly behind her, gave a subdued little round of applause. "Fancy joining in?"

"No, ta," Harry said, rounding the sofa to sit next to Ron, setting the tarts on the coffee table and leaning back. "I'm alright for now."

"I think Draco should have a go," Parkinson suddenly crowed from the chair on the other side of the room, where she was nestled on Zabini's lap, contentedly crunching on a Granny Smith. From that and her very slightly smeared eye make-up, Harry could tell she'd already had her turn, but didn't muse too long on how odd it was that she was suddenly joining in with everyone else's fun.

"Absolutely no chance." Malfoy replied, burrowing further back into his own seat and folding his arms. Quick as lightning, Susan reached out both hands and dragged him to the floor by his ankles. The expression of utter betrayal on his face had everybody laughing, and even more so when he pouted like a petulant child and stated that they were all morons.

Harry didn't know whatever had possessed him – Merlin only knew it was a stupid and dangerous thing to do – but he reached out a hand and pushed Malfoy forward into the basin, his palm on the back of the other boy's head, fingers slipping easily through the soft strands. The blond coughed and spluttered when he resurfaced, but he did so around a perfect, shining green apple.

"Well done, Posh Twat," Susan grinned, throwing an arm around Malfoy's shoulders. He spat the apple out into his palm, looking surprised, before offering her a tentative smile. The others laughed, and even Hermione looked slightly amused, but the expression on her face suddenly morphed into one of panic.

"Fuck, the apple pie!" She shrieked, hurtling up and out of the room.

"Wait – bring glasses for the whisky!" Gemma called, before getting up herself and heading after her. Harry caught Malfoy's eye, and wondered whether he should apologise. As always, the other boy beat him to it.

"You could have drowned me, Potter," Malfoy grumbled, one eyebrow cocked as he took a bite of his prize.

"Could have," Harry agreed, pushing his glasses up. "I didn't."

"Thankfully," Malfoy sneered.

"What would you have done – told Daddy on me?" Harry retorted, then inwardly flinched. What a stupid thing to say, when Lucius Malfoy was still serving the sentence in Azkaban that Harry's testimony had failed to save him from. Malfoy winced slightly, but then steeled himself.

"Yes, I would. And he would have been so incensed that his rage managed to break him out of prison and he would have come all the way here, just to kick your arse and give you a crack on the head with his cane."

Harry let loose a surprised bark of laughter, and Malfoy looked just as startled, grey eyes wide.

"Jesus, it would seem you actually have a sense of humour," Harry told him.

"Of course. I'm amazed it's taken you this long to notice my witticisms," Draco said, before turning to Susan, who was saying something to him, lips quirked up. Ron started up talking at Harry's side, and he moved to listen, but not without thinking how strange it was that Malfoy had looked ever so slightly pleased when Harry had said he was funny. And how strange it was, too, that he had been pleased himself to see that expression.

* * *

><p><strong>'Ello 'ello 'ello! Not much to say here, other than a big thank you to sghazalifard, KayelleJohnlock, sunneedee and swan-scones for their lovely reviews :) And another big thanks to everyone who's been favouriting and alerting! Really means a lot, warms the cockles of my little Slytherin heart. <strong>

**(Quick tip though - I've had a couple of questions, but they've been asked using guest accounts. If you want them answered properly, darlings, I'm afraid you're gonna have to either log in properly or send me a message!)**

**Anyway, hope you enjoy!**

**Toodles, chaps,**

_**Cherry**_


	7. Chapter 7

Four o'clock in the morning on the fifth of November found Draco hunched over on the bathroom floor, clinging tight to the toilet bowl as he tried valiantly to stop vomiting. He'd already brought up what felt like it had to have been the last three day's worth of food, but his stomach still hadn't stopped roiling and his throat burned from the bile.

He'd barely had any time to make it to the bathroom, in fact – he'd woken up from a nightmare of his mother and had just gotten to his knees over the toilet before the memory of it made him sick. She had – he didn't want to think about it, but she had been prone on the floor, blood soaking through her silken blonde hair, her eyes glassy and sightless, snakes coiling around her throat and her wrists and ankles. He retched again, but this time nothing came up, and he drew the back of his hand shakily across his mouth, resting his sweat-slick forehead against the cool wood of the toilet seat before clambering inelegantly to his feet using the counter as a crutch. He caught sight of himself in the mirror – his skin was waxy and grey, eyes shadowed, and his lips were cracked and pale. Even though Draco could feel the exhaustion pulling under his skin, almost settling in his bones, he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep again. Besides, Blaise had woken up when he'd clattered out of their bedroom, and Merlin only knew Draco didn't want to face his wrath just yet. Instead he eased out of the bathroom after cleaning up and brushing his teeth and crept downstairs into the living room, planning on firecalling his mother. She kept sleep hours almost as irregularly as he did, these days, and he knew that even if him getting in contact woke her up, she wouldn't lose her temper.

The lights in the sitting room were all off, and it was still near pitch black outside, but there were embers dying in the grate and Draco knew it wouldn't be too hard to get a bigger fire going again. He tucked his fingers up into his long sleeved sleep shirt, shivering as he stepped forward to begin to try and kindle the fire by hand, because his wand was upstairs under his pillow.

His plans were interrupted, however, when he saw one Harry Potter slumped asleep on the couch, Charms textbook dangling loosely from his fingers. Draco yelped, staggering backwards in fright and cracking his shoulder on the high mantle over the fire, which only resulted in him cursing even louder. Potter woke with a startled cry and flung the book onto the floor as he sat up, darting glances around the room from behind crooked glasses before his gaze settled on Draco, and his expression shifted to – well, slightly relieved, but mostly very annoyed.

"Malfoy, what the hell are you doing?"

Potter's voice was sleepy and hoarse, deeper than usual, and possibly the most pleasant-sounding Draco had ever heard it, although the tone left something to be desired. Drawing himself up to his full height, Draco folded his arms and wrinkled his nose.

"I don't believe I have to ask permission to enter the sitting room of my own residence?"

"Oh piss off, you prat, that's not what I meant and you know it," Potter said tiredly as he sat up properly and rubbed at his eyes behind his glasses before straightening them up. "I just wanted to know what you were doing creeping around like a weirdo at..." Here he checked his battered gold wrist watch, then yawned, scrunching up his eyes. "Quarter past four in the morning?"

"I could ask the same of you, except replace 'creeping' with 'sleeping on the couch' and 'weirdo' with 'demented homeless person'," Draco sniffed, rubbing again at his shoulder. To his surprise, Potter snorted a laugh – mirthless, but a laugh nonetheless – and looked away, scrubbing ineffectually at his hair.

"I couldn't sleep-"

"Evidently you could, you were out like a light when I got here -"

"- I couldn't sleep _in my bed_, so I came downstairs after midnight and tried to get some work done. But clearly charms is just that boring." Potter picked up his book and smoothed down the crumpled edges of the pages from where he'd dropped it and set it down on the coffee table in front of him. "Anyway, you still haven't answered my question."

Draco's immediate impulse in response to this was to snarl "I don't have to", but they'd had that particular discussion too many times before. Besides, could he really be bothered getting into yet another argument with Potter this morning?

"I couldn't sleep either," he eventually mumbled, having decided that no, he couldn't. That didn't mean he had to tell the truth, however, so he left out the parts that involved vomit and nightmares and hoped the other boy would leave it at that. Surprisingly, though, he did, rolling his shoulders before standing up.

"Well in that case I'm going to make a cup of tea. Do you, er... Would you like one?"

Draco stared. Eventually, he managed a nod. What in fresh hell? Why was Potter being so nice? He put it down to early morning exhaustion and tried not to think about it, but he couldn't deny that the lack of rancour in their interactions was leaving him a little off kilter.

As soon as Potter was gone, Draco turned back to the fire. He still desperately wanted to contact his mother, but he would have to make it sharp if he didn't want Potter to come in and see him hunched over on his knees, chatting into the grate, because that would be so undignified Draco would be forced to bludgeon them both to death to stop the news ever getting out.

Grabbing a pinch of floo powder from the jar above the fireplace, Draco hastily folded himself down and then tossed it in, leaning forward to say "Malfoy Manor, Grand Bedroom" and braced himself for the dizzying swirl of flames.

* * *

><p>As he'd suspected, his mother was awake, sitting in the armchair by the fire with her feet on a pouffe and a house-elf at her elbow, serving tea from a silver tray. She looked up when he appeared, startled, but then gave him a warm – if slightly tired – smile.<p>

"Hello, darling. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit so early in the day?"

"I just..." Draco said, tailing off. He allowed himself for a minute to scan the features he loved dearest in the entire world, see them alive and animated and _safe_, if more careworn than ever before. "I just wanted to see you, I suppose. I missed you."

"I've missed you too, sweetheart," his mother said softly, settling back and banishing the house-elf with a flick of the wrist. "You never reply to my owls."

"I never find time," he lied. "It's busy, you know, eighth year."

"Mm. And yet, Constanzia Zabini receives a letter every Sunday from her son," Narcissa said delicately, sipping her tea. "And I don't doubt that if they weren't imprisoned James and Genevieve Parkinson would be getting regular updates."

"Mother," Draco sighed. "I'm sitting in your bedroom fireplace at not even five in the morning, without even a cup of tea to my name – could you please not give me bother at this hour?"

"My apologies," she smiled, not sounding particularly sorry. "However, you might find it more advisable to perhaps send me letters every now and then. Poor old Grimm can't keep making that journey only to come back empty handed."

"Poor old Grimm shouldn't be making any journeys, whether it's between Wiltshire and Yorkshire or from his perch to the bloody water bowl, Mother. He's on his last legs."  
>That made Narcissa laugh, her china cup tilting dangerously in her hands, and Draco smiled back at her, even if it did feel thin and stretched. The light outside Narcissa's bedroom window was a dark blue, now, rather than black, and he could still see stars twinkling faintly, hear birds beginning to twitter. It would be nice, he thought, if he could climb fully out of the fireplace and enjoy a cup of tea and slice of toast, and perhaps go a walk in the garden, instead of sit in classes all day in their freezing cold classroom. Sadly, however, their class was so small that his absense would definitely be noticed. His smile faded, and his mother set her tea-cup aside, concern marring her features.<p>

"Look, darling. Is everything alright? You seem a bit out of sorts, and you don't look well."

"I was a bit ill this morning, actually," Draco started, but then realised that talking about it would only make him feel worse, because why should his mother have to worry more? She had enough to deal with as it was. "But I'm fine now, honestly. I feel much better after seeing you."

"I suppose it doesn't matter how old you are, then," Narcissa grinned. "Your mother is always the first one you run to."  
>"And you always will be."<p>

* * *

><p>When Harry came back into the room, Malfoy was on his knees in front of the now roaring fire, a scone rather unceremoniously stuffed into his mouth. He looked horrified, and it made Harry snort, although it was cut short when the blond shot him a death glare.<br>"Where did you get that from?"

Malfoy spat out the scone into his palm before tossing it onto the table and folding himself forward to face Harry, all awkward angles. His pyjamas slipped down his shoulder and exposed one sharp collar bone as he sighed, wordlessly reaching out for the mug Harry was holding.

"I firecalled my mother, who thinks I need feeding up," he said, before taking a sip of his tea and wrinkling up his nose. "While you were busy committing unspeakable crimes to this mug of tea. Did you even use a spoon, or just decide to tip the entire sugar bowl in?"

"You don't have to drink it," Harry sighed. "And I thought you liked sweet things."

This was true. Harry had always noticed Malfoy with a sugar quill in class, or eating sherbet lemons at the lunch table, stealing snatches of Pepper Imps from Parkinson's bag in the corridors and laughing, closed-mouthed. It had become one of the things he'd added to the List of Facts about Draco Malfoy: racist, bully, too big for his boots, pointy, catches the snitch left-handed, at least six feet, eats sweets like a five year old.

"I do. Just not tea. Tea is best served with no milk at all and a slice of lemon floating on top; in a china cup," he wiggled his mug pointedly, liquid almost sloshing over the rim. "_Not _a mug."

"Well I'm sorry I grew up in a semi-detached house in Surrey and not a bloody manor in Wiltshire, because nobody taught me proper tea etiquette."

Apart from _don't leave the tea-bag in for so long, you idiot, you'll ruin it _and _no, not that mug, _and _get your Uncle Vernon a fresh cup of tea right now, he's got a big meeting today and he can't be waiting for you to finish eating_, Harry thought darkly. But he wasn't about to say that to Malfoy, so he simply settled back against the couch cushions, drawing his feet up under him because _fuck_, was November in Yorkshire icy cold.

"I just did, so now you'll remember," Malfoy said absently. Harry looked up at him, wondering what was causing his distraction – and it turned out to be Crookshanks, padding all over the other boy's lap and nudging at the underside of his hand, purring contentedly.

"You know," Harry said musingly, tilting his head to watch as Malfoy finally gave in and scratched behind the cat's ears. "I don't know how Hermione feels about the fact her cat adores you."

"Luckily enough, I don't care." Malfoy replied, but Harry saw the way his fingers tightened slightly in Crookshanks' fur and had to hide his smile behind his mug. Malfoy, he was realising, was quick to hide behind his bravado, but it had always been so obvious that he cared what people thought of him – he wouldn't have tried to make himself so impressive otherwise. "Besides, I like to think that we're kindred spirits."

"I hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but you're not fluffy. Or ginger."

"Perish the thought," Malfoy snorted, hefting Crookshanks up in his arms and hoisting him so that his front paws were braced on his shoulder. The cat bussed his head affectionately at Malfoy's cheekbone and purred louder, and Harry was mystified as to how the cat seemed so keen on him when it abhorred everyone else apart from Hermione and Susan. "I meant that we're both not all that keen on people. And we're good judges of character."

"You're really going to pull the 'good judge of character' card? _Really_?" Harry said incredulously, raising an eyebrow. Malfoy made a strange, abortive half-sound – something between a groan and a gasp – and turned his face away, before seeming to come to a decision, dumping Crookshanks unceremoniously in front of the fire and standing up on wobbly legs. Once he was standing, Harry could see the other boy's hands shaking, and the way there was slight dampness on the front of his pyjama shirt – he hadn't spilled his tea, and he hardly seemed the type to drool or spit, plus the colour lent Harry more to believe that it was – vomit? Malfoy did look sick, he supposed, but he looked sick all the time, with his pale skin and haunted eyes. Still, he felt guilt begin to coil in his stomach and he sighed, sitting forward and setting his mug on the table.

"Look, I'm sorry," he began, but Malfoy shook his head harshly.

"No, don't say you're sorry, because you wouldn't have said it if you didn't mean it. And the fact that you said it clearly means you don't think _I'm _allowed to be sorry for _my_ mistakes. So if I'm not allowed, you fucking well aren't either."

With that, he turned away and walked from the room. But, Harry noticed, he took his cup of tea with him.

* * *

><p>After that morning, Harry felt rotten. It was one thing to argue with somebody who was getting on your nerves, but for once, Malfoy was being decent – plus, if he really had been ill, it was especially shitty to start a fight with somebody post-vomit. He would have apologised, even if it was for no other reason than to ease his guilt, had Malfoy not been mysteriously absent for the entire day.<p>

Harry thought, at first, that perhaps he'd fallen asleep again after he'd left that morning and had just missed their first class, but then he didn't turn up after their break, or at lunch, even though Pansy was making a concentrated effort not to be hideous to Susan and that would have been something Malfoy would have _loved _to see. She even offered her a cigarette, which Susan tried – it made her cough terribly, and Parkinson couldn't seem to hold back her laughter at that. But she did then turn her hand to teaching Susan to inhale properly, puffing out small clouds of cherry-scented smoke that curled around her face, reminding Harry of a black and white film he vaguely remembered watching on Mrs Figg's front room floor.

"No, honestly, you – you just have to go like this," she said as Harry watched them from the sitting room doorway, sitting together on the couch, one delicate, bird-boned and dark, the other soft and tall with red hair streaming down her back. "Look," Parkinson continued, puffing out her small pink mouth and blowing out a perfect smoke ring. Susan clapped, and even Harry smiled a little bit before shaking himself and stepping into the room.

"Parkinson," he began, still oddly gratified when she jumped and then scowled, ash scattering over her skirt. "Have you seen Malfoy?"

"_Draco _is in bed," she replied annoyedly, brushing her tiny hand over her leg. "Said something about feeling ill, asked me and Blaise to duplicate our notes. Why?"

"I just... wondered," Harry said, feeling even worse. If he knew Malfoy at all, he knew that to go to his bed for a full day was tantamount to an animal rolling over, baring its stomach – showing too much weakness. And Harry had seemingly upset him enough that he'd decided to do exactly that.

"Well, now you don't have to," Parkinson replied, breaking Harry out of his thoughts before turning and giving Susan a wicked – and not entirely unfriendly, though Harry was sure she'd deny it – grin. "If only it weren't lunchtime. I'd teach you how to shot gin with the best of them."

Susan was laughing delightedly as Harry backed out of the room, and he couldn't help but smile even as he made his way across the empty classroom and into the kitchen, where Ron and Hermione were sitting together in front of a plate of sandwiches. Hermione was working on an essay and absent-mindedly stroking a hand up and down Ron's arm as he read the Daily Prophet, the sight both wonderfully familiar and bizarre as Harry sat down opposite them, sighing. Hermione simply smiled at him, before turning back to her parchment, absently running the feathered end of her quill against her mouth as she thought. Ron gave him a quick grin, too, before going back to his mouthful, and Harry sighed more heavily, slumping his shoulders for extra effect. It wasn't until he sighed for the third time, however, that Ron and Hermione looked up again, the former expectant, but the latter exasperated.

"Yes, Harry? I take it from your incessant sighing that you have something to talk to us about?"

He opened his mouth to let loose an annoyed reply until he noticed that Hermione was fighting a smile, and then he simply flopped forward, setting his chin on his hand and taking a deep breath.

"Right. Ok. I think I – well, I know, actually. I was a bit of a prat to Malfoy this morning."

"Nothing new there," Ron said mildly, picking up his mug of tea and shaking his head at Harry, who rolled his eyes.

"Alright, I know. But usually he's a prat first, and this time he... well, wasn't."

"So apologise, then," Hermione laughed, turning back to her work. "Honestly, Harry, you act as if it's advanced Potions, or something. If you're in the wrong, you apologise, I know you know that."

"But it's _Malfoy_!" Harry exclaimed, waving his arms around. Why did nobody understand how _difficult _this was?

"Yes, I was aware," Hermione replied, patting his hand across the table. "But, as you said, you were nasty without him starting it this time. So apologise. Even if it's just to make yourself feel better, at least you've done it."

Harry stared at her for a moment as she went back to work for the second time, humming under her breath, before turning to Ron, who shrugged.

"Beats me, mate." He reached for another sandwich, rolling his sleeves up as he went. "If you want to apologise to the git, then you should apologise. If you don't, then don't. Personally I think you should let him stew, but I know what you're like."

Harry smiled, albeit weakly, at that, before picking up the last sandwich and tucking in, thinking. He prided himself on being the better person in these situations, he knew, and if he was honest with himself, it was only the fear of how Malfoy might react that was stopping him from marching right up the stairs and apologising.

Which was ridiculous, wasn't it?

"This is ridiculous," Harry repeated out loud, standing up. "I'm going to go say sorry now."

"Well done," Hermione said without looking up, as Ron let out an affectionate chuckle. "I knew you'd get it eventually."

* * *

><p>Draco was curled up with his back to the door, blankets pulled over his head as he listened to Blaise do whatver it was he did when he was avoiding seeing other people during lunch – currently, it seemed to involve a lot of cursing under his breath and more than one loud thud. He wasn't trying to talk to Draco, however, and he was grateful for that, because he wasn't sure he could actually open his mouth to speak. He felt queasy again, for one, but... He wasn't sure, really, but mostly he felt deflated, like a kneazle chucked in a cold bath. It was strange, but he was finding it difficult to cope with the way that Potter seemed to be refusing to forgive him. Mostly, he was aware that he'd done things which weren't <em>easy <em>to forgive, but there was a small, bitter part of him kicking his heels at how unfair it felt.

There was a knock at the door, and Draco pulled his face out from under the covers, turning to see Blaise sitting on his bed, wand in hand as he tried to enchant a pair of Pansy's satin shoes to tap dance in mid-air. They dropped to the floor, one-two, and rolled off as Blaise stood up.

"Who is it?"

"Er, it's Harry."

Draco's stomach dropped as he pushed himself up on his hands. Blaise turned, eyebrows approaching his hairline as he folded his arms.

"And what do you want?" He said, still looking at Draco. _Do you want me to get him to fuck off? _

"I want to apologise to Mal – to Draco. For this morning. Is he in there?"

They waited another minute. Blaise looked confused, more than anything, swaying slightly between Draco's bed and the door until Draco eventually gave the tiniest of nods. Blaise nodded back, crossing to pull the door open. Potter was standing there, looking sheepish as ever with one hand in his messy jet black hair and the other in his pocket. Blaise simply glared at him for a minute, before setting his shoulders.

"I'll be right downstairs in the sitting room if you need me, Draco."

Draco gave him a wan smile as he walked away and Potter stepped into the room, looking around uncomfortably for a minute before eventually sitting down in the chair at the end of Draco's bed, moving the house jumper sitting there out of the way.

"Blaise is a good friend," Potter started, wringing his hands. "I might not like him, but I can see that he – you know, that he cares."

Draco shrugged, picking at his blanket.

"Are – Pansy, er, she said that you weren't feeling well. Are you feeling any better now?"

"Fine," Draco said quietly. If Potter wanted to say he was sorry, then he'd have to make a proper effort. For his part, Draco was going to make this as hard as possible, if only because it still gave him some small semblance of control over the situation. Potter nodded slightly, before heaving a massive sigh and dropping his elbows to his knees.

"Look, I just wanted to apologise for the way I was acting this morning. It's not fair to constantly rub your face in the past – I'd hate it if somebody did that to me all the time, and started jumping down my throat over the littlest things. We're meant to be grown ups now, so. I just – it's, right, I'm not trying to start another fight, but sometimes it's difficult to believe you've changed."

"Who says I have?" Draco asked, looking out of the window. He assumed it wouldn't be long until the snow started, because there was frost as far as the eye could see, the mid-afternoon sky an icy, frigid blue. Potter snorted, sounding amused, and Draco turned back to him, scandalised.

"Of course you've changed, Malfoy. If you hadn't, do you really think you'd have even let me in this room?"

He had to admit that Potter had him there, and he scowled, folding his arms tight across his ribs and settling back against his pillows. Potter sighed, standing up again and ruffling his hair so it stood up straight from his forehead, fixing Draco with an uncomfortably intense look.

"I just want to know, though. You said this morning that if you weren't allowed to be sorry, then I wasn't either. And since I am... it'd be nice to know if you really were. That you were telling me the truth. _Are_ you sorry?"

"For some things," Draco said, startling himself with both the answer itself and its immediacy. "I mean. I – I'm sorry for Weasley's brother. The one Greyback got. And I'm sorry for what happened at the Manor, when you were there and when you weren't. And for everything that happened with Dumbledore. I don't know," he eventually tailed off, averting his eyes. "It's difficult to keep tabs on all the things I'm sorry for sometimes. It seems I've a never ending list."

"I know that feeling," Potter mumbled, seemingly half to himself, before he did something that shocked Draco more than anything else had that day. He stuck out his hand. "Ok, then."

"Ok, what?" Draco asked, confused. Potter wiggled his hand around a bit before letting out an exasperated laugh.

"Come on, Malfoy, I know you know what a hand shake is."

"You want me to shake your hand?"

"Well, yeah. We've both apologised, we've both acknowledged that this morning was a bit shit, and we've had a full conversation now without it turning into a fight. I figure we should celebrate being reasonable with a fresh start, don't you? And, I don't know about you, but I feel like a handshake is appropriate."

Draco stared at Potter's hand for another second, thinking frantically. He'd never thought, after the incident in first year, that this was something he'd get a second chance with. It was bizarre, and uncomfortable, and Potter's hand looked rough, the nails bitten, with an ink splatter across his thumb and pointer finger. But today, it seemed, was a day of unexpected things, and Draco almost didn't think before he moved, and did something that he'd never imagined he would.

He took Potter's hand.

**Oh, my giddy aunt. Apologies are in order, I feel. I know it's been an unbelievably long time since I've updated, and I really am sorry for everyone who was reading this, I do have a few things to say. I've had a lot, and I mean a _lot _going on in my personal life, as some of you may know, and while I usually consider myself to be quite a committed person, it's taken me a really really long time to sort myself and my head out enough to even get into a position where I even thought I could open up a word document again. In saying that, I'm here now, and here is an update for you!**

**So. Yes. Update. The plot thickens, etc. I hope you enjoy, and a big thank you to everyone who's reading/reviewing/keeping me going, in whatever small way. I'm better now, but it would have taken me longer to get here without thinking of all you guys and how much you care. So thank you!**

**Anyway, I'll leave it there. But yes. Enjoy!**

_**Cherry**_** xo**


	8. Chapter 8

Since his little chat with Malfoy a week ago, Harry thought, things had been much better around the house. Not perfect, of course – he didn't think they'd ever be perfect, really, but they could hope for something close. At least now Malfoy wasn't glaring at him across classrooms, and there was no way in hell that Parkinson and Susan weren't going to end up thick as thieves by the end of the year, even though Harry bet that Parkinson would still be swearing they were mortal enemies if Susan was bridesmaid at her wedding. Even Zabini had wound himself down, though he still made the odd inappropriate comment, but it was more often tempered by a quick grin rather than narrowed dark eyes.

And, for the first time since they'd begun their tradition, he found himself actively looking forward to heading down to the pub. Although, of course, he couldn't get himself too drunk, because Ginny was coming to visit tomorrow. Harry had eventually gotten himself together enough – or, as Ron put it, pulled his head out of his arse – and written Ginny back, thanking her for her gift on Hallowe'en and asking if she'd like to pay a visit, and she'd responded in the same night, saying that of course she would, and she would be delighted to see everyone, and could she bring Luna? Of course, since the Hogwarts girls and the Yorkshire lot both had classes on Fridays, it meant that they had to call on Saturday morning, and therefore run the risk of visiting during prime hangover hours. But, Harry supposed, that was what fry ups were for, and it was Ron's turn to cook tomorrow, so he wasn't too worried. Currently he was curled up on the end of Hermione's bed, watching as she attempted to organise her books, because apparently Lavender had been in to borrow one and messed up the entire system.

"Honestly, how hard is it to remember a year system, and not alphabetical? Or, more accurately, how hard is it to just ask _me _to fetch the book she needed?" Hermione was muttering, and Harry wasn't entirely sure if she actually intended for anyone to hear.

"I think she didn't want to interrupt you and Ron," Harry said reasonably. Which, he felt, was fair – at the time Lavender had asked for the book, Hermione and Ron had been tangled up together on the couch, a blanket draped over them as Lisa and Seamus played Exploding Snap in front of the fire.

"Even so," Hermione replied, jabbing her wand viciously in the direction of her books. They shuffled themselves around, eventually settling into what Harry presumed must be the correct order in the milk crate Hermione was using to store all of her larger tomes. She pushed it under the bed, giving a satisfied little hum, before climbing up and sitting next to him on the bed. "Thank God that's done. It means when I'm doing some reading tonight I won't have to search the entire box."

"Tonight? Aren't you coming out?" Harry questioned, as she leaned against him and set her head on his shoulder.

"Of course I am. But I'm presuming we're not going to be out until the small hours – it's dark early these days, and if Ginny and Luna are coming tomorrow, well. Besides, I always read in bed."

"It's true," Ron said, appearing at the door fresh from the shower, ginger hair sopping wet with rivulets of water running down the sides of his neck. "Can't get her to put them down for love nor Galleons."

"Ron!" Hermione said, scandalized and blushing furiously, at the same time as Harry wrinkled his nose and said "Yeah, I really don't need to hear about the two of you in bed. I'm just saying."

"Suit yourself," Ron laughed, throwing himself down on Hermione's other side and jostling all three until they were tangled together in a heap of limbs. "It's not all that exciting anyway."

"Ronald," Hermione said quietly, as Harry collapsed in fits of giggles. "You are treading on very thin ice, darling."

"I didn't mean – oh, never mind," He spluttered, before shaking his head. "I can never bloody win with you two."

"What are best friends for?" Harry grinned.

* * *

><p>"Oh, come <em>on, <em>Draco, what are best friends for?"

"I wasn't aware that in being your best friend I was automatically required to help you with this nonsense." Draco sighed, gazing at Pansy. She was currently standing in the dead centre of his bedroom, undressed save for her underwear, arms folded and hip cocked. Nobody had any business looking that confident nearly naked, but Draco had to admit that Pansy worked hard for the body she had, never eating too many sweets, always making sure that her food was filled with all the necessary nutrients and none of the unnecessary fats that, she claimed, would make her look like her mother's overweight pug, Morgana. He got distracted by wondering who was looking after the dog now, with both James and Genevieve Parkinson in prison, until Pansy started clicking her fingers in front of his nose.

"Hey! I know I'm a pretty package, but this thing is incredibly complicated and I really do need your help."

She waved the fabric in her other hand, sighing impatiently, before smiling and turning round when Draco resignedly took the thing from her hands. It seemed to be something like a corset, only with no fitted bust or laces – apparently it would help give Pansy an hourglass, or something, because she insisted she was shaped like a cereal box. Draco didn't think that was true, but he let Pansy hold the stupid thing in place while he began to slide the long row of clasps into place in the back.

"Why do you even bother? I thought you usually just wore a belt for your stockings."

"Yes, well, Gemma's cousin from London is visiting tonight, so." Pansy said, sounding slightly strained. "I like to make an effort when I think there's a chance that somebody else can do the honours of undoing the work I've put in."

"Or that _I've _put in." Draco snorted. Gemma's poor cousin, whoever he was, didn't stand a chance. He finished fixing the last metal clasp just as there was a knock at the door, and before he could say anything, Susan had pushed it open. The look on her face was one of the utmost shock, her eyes wide and mouth even wider, and if Draco hadn't been mortified, he would have found it amusing. As it stood, he was sitting on the end of his bed with his hands on Pansy's waist, and he seemed to be the only one out of the two of them who found it inappropriate.

"Oh, hello, Bones," Pansy said with a grin. "Can we help you?"

"I - er, I was just, I just wanted to ask Draco something?"

"Alright, then, I'll leave you two in peace," Pansy said, pecking Draco's cheek before picking up the silk dressing gown she'd brought from the end of Blaise's bed and sashaying out of the room. Susan seemed to swallow and shook her head slightly, before trying for a grin.

"What is she like?"

"I know," Draco said, mouth dry. "It's not – it wasn't what it looked like."

"Of course not," Susan agreed, stepping into the room a little more. "I know what Pansy's like with her boyfriends, everyone does. She's so obvious you could probably see her heart eyes from America."

"If not the moon." Draco said with a small smile, relaxing slightly. "Anyway, you wanted to ask me something?"

"Yes," Susan said, before looking down at her feet and fidgeting nervously with the hem of the floral dress she was wearing. "I just – wanted to double check you were going to come tonight."

"I wasn't, actually." Draco said. He couldn't be bothered with the walk, the cold, the silly chit-chat, the drinks that always seemed to leave him feeling worse than before – and it wasn't as if he felt all that good at any time, these days. "I've got rather a lot of work to catch up on."

Susan's face fell, but she covered it quickly, pushing her plait back over her shoulder. She smiled again, straightening her shoulders.

"Alright. What a work ethic you've got, Draco. I'll see you when I get back, then?"

"Of course, if I'm still awake. We can get a cup of tea and you can tell me how dreadfully Pansy's behaved."

Susan's laughter echoed across the hallway as she left, but Draco couldn't help but feel slightly unsettled. Yes, he and Susan were friends, but he wasn't her _only _friend here – she was remarkably well liked, as a Hufflepuff should be, and therefore she would hardly be lonely down at the pub. He still didn't understand why she liked his company so much, and he didn't really feel he deserved it, especially calling to mind one particular afternoon when Goyle had, at his suggestion, dipped the ends of Susan's pigtails into permanent ink in the library. She'd thrown a book at him, true, but even so. Draco realised, thanks to recent events like the war, that being a right little shit to everyone around you - bar the "right" people - was not the way to go about things, but at the time it had seemed the best option. He knew better now, but he didn't understand why people were so... _forgiving_, either. Susan with her easy smiles and her cups of tea and the way she held his hand under the table, once, in the kitchen when Finnigan made a joke about Azkaban. And Granger, with her indifference – if it were him, he knew, in a class with a boy who had first made his life hell and then ultimately been triumphed over, he would have been crowing it from the rooftops, rubbing it in everyone's faces. And even Potter. Draco could still remember the feel of his handshake, rough but sure, the handshake of – not a politician, or a man like his father, because it was a handshake that was utterly comforting, sure of itself, not out to ingratiate or sell anything or impress.

Draco sighed grimly, grinding the palm of his left hand into his eye hard enough to see sparks of red and orange. Thinking about this wouldn't help anyone, it wouldn't help him feel better, and it certainly wouldn't get his essays done. He hadn't lied to Susan, he really did have to work, but for some reason recently his hands had been shaking too badly every time he'd tried to lift a quill.

"God loves a trier," he breathed, something he'd heard once at a dinner party as a child, spoken to his mother about a committee she was organizing. Draco hoped it was true, because God had to know he tried.

* * *

><p>An hour later, Harry was watching – half-amused, half-aghast – as Parkinson danced with Gemma's cousin to the music playing on the pub's jukebox. He was sitting at a table with Seamus and Lavender, for once, as Hermione and Ron both sat at the bar and Susan and Lisa chatted with Gemma. God knew where Zabini was – he had certainly come out with them, but there was a little bit of a crowd in tonight, people in warm jumpers and hats, and Zabini was nowhere to be seen in the throng. Parkinson, however...<p>

"Oh, my God," Lavender said into her pint of bitter, giggling despite herself. "She cannot honestly think that's sexy."

"I dunno, I think it's pretty sexy," Seamus replied, earning himself a hearty punch on the arm. He yelped in response, and Harry laughed even more, casting his eyes back over at Parkinson, who – it was strange. She didn't seem the type to be awkward in her seduction skills, but the way she was moving, her shoulders jerky and her arms uncoordinated, certainly wasn't anything likely to win her any awards. And yet there was something oddly endearing about it, about the way she smiled as she turned awkwardly under Gemma's cousin's arm, her small hand in his. He certainly seemed charmed, anyway, grinning and leaning down to whisper in Parkinson's ear before moving off to the bar. Parkinson smirked to herself, and Zabini suddenly appeared again at her shoulder – he'd been at the bathroom, seemingly – and laughed, grabbing Parkinson around the waist and beginning a quick charleston.

"Fucking hell." Harry said. Parkinson was hitting every step perfectly, her arms fluid, hips swaying in a way that was _definitely _seductive, though Harry got distracted by the way Zabini's shoulder blades were moving under his crisp black shirt, the quick movements of his hands as he spun Parkinson around before grabbing her face, which looked _pretty_ framed as it was by his long brown fingers as she laughed, and kissed her head before pushing away again to get another drink and annoy Lisa and Susan. The way Zabini moved through the small crowd was catlike, almost, sinuous, completely captivating, and Harry felt himself _blush_, what the hell? Feeling uncomfortable and trying to move on from it, Harry turned to the others. "Did you see that?"

"Yes," Lavender smiled. "Seemingly she was only pretending to be a terrible dancer. And it'll work – Gemma's cousin will think he can teach her some moves, and she'll use it as an excuse to get close, and before you know it – _bam_. They'll be doing a whole other type of tango."

"Just goes to show, you can never trust a Slytherin," Seamus said, as if he was imparting great wisdom. Lavender rolled her eyes, but Harry frowned, shaking his head.

"That's not fair, Seamus," he began, angling himself further around. "Lavender got what she was doing, and you're not saying you can't trust Lavender."

"That's because I know Lav-Lav would never pull a trick like that." Seamus smirked, but Lavender, sitting on his other side, cackled loudly, putting down her empty pint and folding her arms.

"Are you joking, Seamus?! I've pulled that trick at family dinner parties more times than I can count on all our hands put together. Good on her, I say – what's the guy's name again, Andrew? He's fit as hell. Just because I don't like her doesn't mean I can't admire her tactics. It's nothing to do with her being a Slytherin, it's to do with being a clever girl."

Harry smiled, surprised, at Lavender, who smiled back. He hadn't expected her to get his point, in all honesty, but recently he was realising that it wasn't just the obvious people who had changed, post war. Now that he was away from Hogwarts, house definitions were beginning to seem less like they mattered, and less like a black-and-white stamp on your character.

"Whatever," Seamus sighed, downing the last of his cider and standing up. "Lav, I'm going to go get another drink. Want one?"

"Go on then," she said, then laughed. "When you come back I can show you my terrible dance skills, if you like. Show you it's not just a Slytherin trick."

"Alright, as long as it doesn't lead to any other kind of dance," Seamus grinned, taking off in the direction of the bar. When Harry looked back at Lavender, she was flushed, if only very slightly, nervously tugging her hair over her shoulder.

"Lavender," Harry began, incredulous. "Do you – have you got a thing for Seamus?"

"Only a little one," she replied meekly, before sighing. "I don't know. It's just – back at Hogwarts, I always thought he was a right idiot, always playing the clown and never being serious."

Harry, who had his own views on Lavender and being 'serious', stayed quiet.

"But I suppose being all the way out here, it makes you see people differently. I like how he makes me laugh, now. It's nice to have somebody to cheer you up. Plus an Irish accent is a killer."

She shook her head, then, as if at her own words, but shrugged off her cardigan and went to meet Seamus by the make-shift dance floor. Sitting alone, Harry watched them for a minute as they danced to something that sounded like U2, one of their newer songs that Harry didn't really know but liked the sound of; something about falling in love and it all being the opposite of what you expected. As Seamus grinned and crooned stupidly along with the words - "_blue eyed boy meets a brown eyed girl_" - Harry couldn't help but think maybe Lavender's feelings were reciprocated. He smiled a little at that, looking around for the others. Ron and Hermione were deep in conversation, Hermione's face pleasantly pink as she laughed at something he was saying. Lisa was listening intently to something Susan was saying to she and Zabini, who was diving his attentions between the girls and Parkinson and Andrew, who were also dancing, Parkinson's tiny waist circled by Andrew's big hands. Without Malfoy here, Harry supposed – and why _wasn't _he here, he would have been entertained by his best friend's behaviour – somebody had to keep an eye out. The expression on Zabini's face, one of concern and caring and amused exasperation, almost a brother looking out for a sister, took Harry aback somewhat, so he was still staring when Zabini looked over at him. He didn't react, really, other than to arch an eyebrow and raise his drink in a toast before taking a large swig.

Harry raised his glass back, thinking, yes, being away from Hogwarts really did make you see things in a different light.

* * *

><p>Draco was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea and the last of his transfiguration essay when the others trooped in, led by a worryingly drunk Susan.<p>

"Hello!" She half-yelled, staggering forward slightly and banging her hip on the table. Alarmed, Draco reached for his cup to stop it from spilling as Susan reeled back, giggling, with two hands over her mouth. "Oops. Sorry, Draco."

"It's... alright. Where's Pansy?" He said, quickly scanning the rest of the group. Weasley was helping Granger out of her long coat, as Potter gathered their scarves and gloves together; Brown was on Finnigan's _back_, singing a raucous, rousing version of the Hogwarts song, and Turpin was giggling into her hair, looking extremely bright eyed. Blaise was smirking, hands in the pockets of his black jacket.

"Copped off, didn't she? Got poor Andrew Farley in her web. I suppose she'll apparate back in the morning with a terrific hangover and plenty of stories to tell."

"I don't doubt," Draco said quietly. "Well done, her."

Blaise smiled, but there was something in his eyes which said they would be discussing the fact that Draco wasn't jumping for joy later. Even so, he did him a favour in ushering the drunken revelers out of the room and upstairs, so that only Susan was left, swaying gently as she lowered herself onto the bench seat next to Draco. Under the smell of gin – he assumed she'd spilled a little on her dress – she still smelled nice, a fruity, summery fragrance that he'd come to associate with her; with early morning chat over the coffee table as they watched the light outside grow stronger.

"Did you have a good night?" He eventually asked, turning slightly to face Susan. She was watching him with an unreadable expression on her face, but she smiled when her eyes met his.

"Oh, yes. Wonderful. Pansy was great entertainment. You missed a terrific show involving terrible dancing and a pretty deliberately spilled pint. Her dress is ruined, but Andrew gave the guy who _seemingly_ did it a good bollocking, so I'd say that her evening is faring pretty well."

Draco smiled. He knew all of Pansy's little tricks and mannerisms – she'd practiced them with him often enough, if only because she knew he'd tell her when she was going to be seen straight through. Still, she certainly was something to behold in action.

"I'll bet it is. I'm sorry I didn't come, I just... Wanted to get some of this work out of the way." Draco waved his hand absently at the parchment in front of him. Susan smiled, taking the hand in hers and giving it a squeeze.

"It's alright. It would have been nice had you been there, though."

And there it was again – Susan was acting as though they were the best of friends, as if she genuinely enjoyed his company and wanted it all the time. He didn't think she was lying, exactly, but he didn't understand _why_.

"It probably wouldn't," he protested, but squeezed Susan's hand back all the same. "I'd have gotten drunk and said something dreadfully offensive and revealed myself to be completely awful."

"We all already know you're completely awful," Susan laughed, leaning in closer. "We don't mind."

"Speak for yourself."

"Believe me, I am."

Draco would have finished said something in reply; he had _fully _intended on it, but he was distracted by the fact that Susan was _kissing him_. He made an incredibly undignified noise, and flailed his arms and hands around, but she didn't seem deterred in the slightest. Susan's lips were soft, and they weren't exactly unpleasant, but even so, he wanted to put a stop to this right this instant. Eventually managing to get his errant limbs under control, he placed his hands on Susan's shoulders and gave them a gentle but firm push.

"Draco, what's wrong?" Susan asked. Her eyes were wide, concerned, but she didn't look too hurt, so that wasn't so bad. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset," Draco insisted, but his voice was wobbling dreadfully, pitching high then low again, wavering like a bad radio transmission. "Not at all."

"Right, except you're sitting there looking like you're about to cry. Look, it's alright if, you know, you don't fancy me. I'll get over it, it's not as if it's uncommon that people don't like me."

"Susan, don't." Draco said fiercely. "It's not about that. You're gorgeous, really, you are."

"Then why...?" Susan tailed off, folding her arms. She was still more than a little drunk, but it was making her braver, and Draco sighed, shaking his head. He was hesitant to explain himself – Susan was his friend, true, but this was something only Pansy and Blaise, his mother and Snape had known about. Then again, he supposed that Susan's kindness needed a repayment, and if this was all he could give her, then so be it.

"It isn't about you, Suze. Honestly, it isn't. If things were different, you'd be the first girl I'd have hanging off my arm, if Pansy didn't rip you to shreds for it first. It's just... You're not exactly my type. Not at all my type, in fact."

He held his breath, hoping that Susan would understand, and she looked at him for another moment before her frown vanished and her eyes seemed to soften. She even smiled a little bit, taking a deep breath before speaking.

"Yes, I've seen the way you act around the Weasleys. Not a fan of redheads?"

Draco snorted out a laugh at that, relieved, and dropped his head onto Susan's shoulder. She immediately reached up and stroked her hand through the ends of his hair, tutting softly.

"You should have just told me, you know. It would have saved me a lot of bother and a few weeks of pining if I'd have just known you weren't interested at all in what I had under my skirt."

"Well, it's not the kind of thing you just drop into casual conversation with a new friend, is it? 'Yes, hello. My favourite colour is blue and by the by, I'm gay. Strictly into cock, anything you've got below the waist will send me screaming in horror'."

Susan tossed her head back and laughed at that, eyes crinkling and freckled cheeks flushed, and Draco wondered again at what he could have done to deserve her. He wasn't sure there was anything, and he still wasn't sure it was right, but if people wanted to be kind, he'd take it, even if he felt guilty about it.

"You're a good friend, Susan Bones." He mumbled when she finally stopped laughing at him, and pecked the corner of her mouth. "You'll make some boy very happy one day. I'm just sorry it can't be me."

"Nonsense," she replied, voice soothing. "You already make me happy. Now, come on, we can go and sit in the living room and you can entertain my drunken self with wonderful tales of boy love. I've just had my heart broken, you have to do it, it's the friend rules."

"You've been spending too much time with Pansy!" He called after her as she picked up his mug and left the room, tripping only once. He smiled slightly, shaking his head. He trusted Susan more than he had ever thought he would, and yet – there was something slightly uncomfortable about her knowing this huge facet of his personality. His father, and to a lesser degree, his mother, had always instilled in him that it was of the utmost importance to keep your cards incredibly close to your chest. He felt bad for it – he knew Susan wouldn't tell anyone – but it was still difficult to feel calm, knowing that somebody knew possibly your biggest secret. It still made him twitchy when _Blaise _made jokes, for pity's sake, and Blaise had been his best friend ever since one afternoon in fourth year when they'd both been hiding from Pansy's rampaging quest for a Yule Ball date, and had ended up drawing lots under Goyle's bed.

But there was nothing to be done now, so he set up a teapot, picked up Susan's mug, and went after her, resolutely swearing to himself that he wasn't going to tell her anything more, and knowing that he probably would.

* * *

><p>"I am never drinking again." Hermione said grimly, her head in her hands and a cup of weak coffee in front of her on the table. Ron was installed firmly by the range, looking rather green himself, but dutifully cooking up a mountain of bacon and eggs, with Lisa – remarkably merry, and probably the least worst for wear - toasting endless slices of bread over one of Hermione's jam jar fires. She'd just about managed to set it up before collapsing weakly to the table, grumbling under her breath. Harry, meanwhile, was sitting on the counter, his own hangover somewhat lessened by the amusement of watching his friends struggle.<p>

"Well, you did take Susan up on that shooter competition, didn't you?" He laughed, as Hermione – in a very uncharacteristic move – gave him a two fingered salute.

"Well, I didn't think that a rural Yorkshire pub would have that much on offer. I thought perhaps it would be a tequila or a vodka, or something. Not every high concentration shot that the Muggle world has to offer."

"That'd be Gemma," Harry replied. "You just know that she's been bossing poor Geoff around about the running of that place."

"Not half," Hermione groaned. "I'm going to brew some hangover potion later and keep it in reserves."

"You could charge," Lisa said mildly, sending a humongous plate of toast over to the table and jabbing her wand so that the butter knife sprang into action. "I bet Susan's willing to pay at least five Galleons to get rid of her headache."

Harry snorted. Susan, last he had seen her, had been curled up on the couch, her head in Malfoy's lap as she whimpered pitifully, a hand thrown over her eyes. Malfoy himself had looked half amused and half terrified at her proximity, one hand awkwardly set between her shoulder blades as he attempted to balance his Astronomy textbook over Crookshanks circling in his lap. They had a class coming up in the coming week, providing the skies stayed clear, with their professor, a friendly muscle-bound fellow from Shetland who would only answer to McLeod, his last name. He was well liked, however, and Harry hoped they'd get the chance to get out and do some work again, even if it meant most likely struggling through snow.

"I'd charge her ten," Hermione finally managed a joke as Ron dished up the bacon and eggs and sent them over to sit on the table, along with four plates, seeing as the others hadn't come running. "The rotten thing."

"You're just sad because you lost," Ron teased, kissing her hair gently as he clambered over the bench next to her. "Next time make sure you haven't been drinking wine first."

"Wonderful advice, really, from Mr. I'll-have-four-pints-then-pick-up-my-girlfriend-and_-drop-her_."

That had everybody laughing, as Ron tried wildly to insist that he had had _six _pints, thanks very much, and Hermione hadn't been that badly hurt anyway, and he'd _said_ he was sorry, and it "wasn't that funny, shut up". They were still laughing when there was a loud _crack_ from the yard and Pansy Parkinson appeared, in last night's clothes, with an unfamiliar scarf around her neck as she swayed a little on her feet. Other than that, however, she looked perfectly at ease, smiling in a self satisfied sort of manner as she trotted in through the door.

"You're looking very pleased with yourself," Hermione remarked, her tone on the surface pleasant, but Harry could still detect a small hint of dislike. "Has some nefarious plot come to fruition?"

Parkinson, however, simply grinned, sharp and almost vampiric as she chucked the scarf carelessly at one of the hooks on the back of the door. It missed, of course, the soft blue wool slithering to the floor.

"If you call getting Andrew Farley into bed a nefarious plot, it certainly has come to fruition. I'm _definitely _pleased with myself – where is Draco? Or Blaise? I would like to brag about my conquest and I automatically assume that you lot neither want the detail or would find it entertaining."

"Malfoy's in the sitting room, but Zabini hasn't surfaced all morning," Ron told her, surprisingly without rancour, although he proceeded to ruin it. "So you may as well go bother them, seeing as we've got visitors coming and they're a bit more of a priority than your stories."

"Alright, then, I can tell when I'm not wanted," Parkinson replied, still smiling as she reached over and plucked a rasher of bacon from the plate, dancing away across the room. "But you're missing out."

"I bet," Ron muttered under his breath. Parkinson stuck out her tongue at him before disappearing off out of view, crunching happily on her stolen breakfast as she went.

"That girl." Hermione said, shaking her head. Ron simply rolled his eyes at her in return, and breakfast carried on, though Harry caught Lisa's eye and they both made vaguely awkward 'what-are-you-going-to-do' shrugging gestures at each other. Harry might not like Parkinson, true, but his policy of keeping things as amicable as they were currently certainly didn't involve being openly rude.

At least, not first.

* * *

><p>Forgetting about that morning, however, was easy. Harry got up after breakfast and went back to his room, where Seamus was sitting up in bed – Lavender had wandered in while they were eating and made a few mugs of tea, and he found her there now, sitting on the edge of the bed in worn flannelette shorts and a turtle neck jumper made out of hideous, glittery pink wool. He gave them both a smile and a little wave and flopped down onto his own bed, indicating that he wasn't listening to their conversation by dragging out his potions textbook and immediately burying his nose in it. He still wasn't great at potions, but he was doing better than he ever did under Snape – or without the assistance of said Professor's marginal notes. A minute later, however, his ears filled with a slight, irritating buzz, and he noticed that he couldn't hear a word that anybody else in the room was saying. Seamus grinned at him, wiggling his wand and pointing it at his mouth and then ears, Lavender looking flushed but amused beside him. Cursing the fact that he'd ever taught Seamus <em>Muffliato<em>, Harry got up and went into the bathroom, brushing his teeth for the third time that morning to attempt to rid himself of the sickly taste in his mouth, a bizarre mix of hangover and anxiety. He just wanted to _relax_ for a minute; the thought of Ginny was sending his nerves into overdrive, his stomach fluttering with what felt to be thousands if not millions of butterflies. He was looking forward to seeing Luna, however, and he knew that there were worse things than seeing an ex – he wanted to power through today, but he wanted to be somewhere he didn't have to think about it until it was actually _happening_.

Eventually, Harry sighed and rinsed out the sink, catching sight of his reflection. His hair was a mess, but it always was, and otherwise he thought he looked alright, if a little scrawny still after his year on the run.

"Harry, is that you in there?" Lisa's voice came from outside. "Are you finished? Only I don't want to open the door and find you naked again."

"No, it's alright Lisa, I'm coming out," Harry laughed a little, still embarrassed about that incident, and let Lisa in, squeezing out past her. He was settling into sharing rooms like the bathroom and kitchen, now, feeling more at home than he ever had in any other house bar, perhaps, the Burrow. Even the living room held a certain appeal when he cracked the door and pushed it open, warmth spilling out from the fireplace. It was still only Malfoy and Susan in there, but Susan was asleep, now, little snorting noises escaping her nose every so often. Malfoy seemed to have given up reading, too, and was watching Susan sleep with a very curious expression of affection on his face, one hand still splayed across her back.

"Hey," Harry said, feeling somehow wrong for disturbing the moment. He still had his textbook with him and held it up as if in explanation, trying for a hopeful smile. "Do you mind?"

"Of course not, you're as welcome in here as I am." Malfoy said quietly. Harry nodded and crossed the room, settling into an armchair – it was eleven, now, and Ginny and Luna could be here any time.

"Take it Susan's still feeling rough?" He asked. Malfoy smiled a little, moving his hand to smooth a tendril of red hair from Susan's forehead. The gesture was so tender that Harry's heart felt – not heavy, but perhaps a little full He'd never get over how strange it was to see Malfoy showing care for somebody like Susan Bones.

"Terribly, I think. She's not been at it for nearly as long as us lot – her body's not built for gin, but I don't doubt Pansy encouraged her. If I'd have been there I'd have made sure she stuck to something smart."

"You know how weird it is that you guys are friends now, don't you?" Harry blurted. Malfoy's eyebrows approached his hairline, but he didn't look offended. "I mean, it's really bizarre."

"As far as I can see," Malfoy said slowly. "There's rather a lot of scope for bizarre friendships out here."

The weak smile that followed confirmed that Malfoy was trying to be friendly, which was – Harry surprised himself with how pleased he was. Before he could smile back, however, the Floo rattled, Ginny tumbling out on to the carpet. Malfoy fell silent, but Harry leaped forward to help Ginny up and out of the way.

"Hello!" He said, rather breathlessly for somebody who'd just been sitting down. She smiled, puffing her hair out of her eye.

"Hi. Luna will be through in just a second -"

"Luna?!" Draco demanded, voice shrill. Ginny narrowed her eyes at him, swishing her long hair over her shoulder, but nodded. At that, Draco shunted Susan roughly off of his knee, struggling to stand up, but Susan – still half asleep – coiled an arm around his leg, so he was still wobbling agitatedly when Luna popped out of the fireplace, dressed in an ankle length dress and a large grey cardigan.

"Hello, Harry," she said happily, smiling and bobbing her head, her topknot bobbing right along with it. "And Draco! How are you?"

"Fine, thank you," Malfoy gasped. He seemed to be having trouble getting enough air, his eyes wide and panicked and his hands jerking around spasmodically. He eventually disentangled himself from Susan and sprinted out of the side door, and they all heard the yard gate clatter an instant after.

"What was all that about?" Susan yawned, finally sitting up, but her eyes slid shut a second or so later and she curled back over into the arm of the chair where Malfoy had been sitting, smacking her lips and going right back to sleep.

"Didn't you warn him I was coming, Harry?" Luna asked. She sounded her usual dreamy self, but underneath he could sense the tiniest hint of reproach. Harry thought for a minute as to why that could be, until his stomach dropped. His mouth went dry, and he couldn't think of anything to say. "As much as I know you're on my side," Luna was continuing, picking up the ornaments on top of the piano that Parkinson had spent hours re-tuning and smiling gently at them. "And I wouldn't expect you to think of it, not really, but at least I had the foreknowledge he would be here, and was able to prepare."

"You're talking like it's a bad _break-up_, Luna," Ginny scolded, unwinding her scarf. "His family bloody tortured you!"

"_He_ didn't," Luna said mildly. "He might have been there, but mostly all he did was cry a bit and look terribly sad and sick. I can imagine it would have been dreadful to even think about trying to fight for me when his own life was in danger all the time. I'm not saying I want to be his best friend, or anything, or what he did was right, but..."

Harry had heard enough. He scrambled over to the door and rammed on his shoes, ignoring Ginny's cries of annoyance, and headed off in the direction he hoped Draco had gone.

* * *

><p>Draco didn't know where he was.<p>

He was underneath a tree, and the ground was damp. He had both hands curled, claw-like, into the earth, but his eyes were squeezed tight shut and his head was down between his raised knees. He couldn't breathe right, he _knew _he wasn't breathing right, and the only sound he was aware of was a ragged sort of whistling sound, seemingly coming from his own constricting throat. He could feel himself shaking and the bark of the tree rough against his shirt-clad back, and he wanted to shout at himself, snap himself out of it, but everything seemed like it was moving very far away.

"Malfoy?"

He jumped a mile. He didn't move, other than that, but the whistling sound – that couldn't really be him, it was far too high and scared sounding – increased in frequency.

"Malfoy, it's ok, it's me. It's Harry. Can you look at me, please?"

Draco shook his head jerkily. He was aware of movement, now, and another sensation – somebody kneeling in front of him, hands settling on top of his knees.

"Ok, you don't have to. But I want you – can you try something for me? Can you try and breathe in really deep?"

Draco shook his head again, irritated this time. Did Potter not _get _that he was having a breakdown?

"Well, you're shaking your head, but you haven't even tried yet. Let's give it a go."

Suddenly, there were fingers clasped around his own, and they were warm and slightly rough, and Draco instantly felt a little bit better. The fingers squeezed, and he squeezed tentatively back.

"Good. Ok! So what we're going to do – are you listening? What we're going to do is you're going to breathe in for seven, if you can, and squeeze my hand that entire time, tight as you like. Then breathe out for eleven, and let my hand go – can't have you breaking my fingers, yeah?"

Moving his head, Draco finally managed to get a look at Potter. His glasses were askew, and his cheeks were red as if he'd been running, but all he did was smile, so Draco shakily tried to take a deep breath in. He got to three seconds before gasping, but Potter took his other hand and laced their fingers together, and he managed five after a little while, then seven. Somehow, he got there – Potter's hands in his were incredibly distracting, because they felt so _nice_, but he was breathing in for seven and breathing out for eleven within five minutes or so.

"Feeling better?" Potter eventually asked. His glasses were slipping, but instead of letting go of Draco's hands, he simply twitched his nose to get them back into place.  
>"A bit." He replied, voice raw. "I'm sorry, I don't know what happened."<br>"It was a panic attack," Potter said simply. "I used to get them a fair bit – y'know. When I was a kid, and then at the end of the war, sometimes. That's a Muggle technique to help calm people, Hermione taught me it."

"She's clever. It's come in very handy."

Speaking of hands, they were still holding on to each other's, but Draco found he didn't much fancy letting go. It was weirdly comforting, sitting here holding Potter's fingers in his own, looking around – he seemed to have gone west of the house, and was near a thicket of trees, facing away from Danby and looking up towards some crags. There was a sharp tang of autumn leaves in the air, and a crisp scent that he had always associated with winter. It was a pretty place, and that helped, too.

"I'm sorry, really," Draco started. Potter looked confused, so he tried to elaborate. "For running out like that. If anybody has the right to, it's Luna. I was just being a coward."

"No, you weren't," Potter said softly, leaning a bit closer, shifting on his knees. "Luna's ok about it. I mean, she's not ok about it, and of course none of us are exactly alright with the whole keeping-her-locked-in-the-cellar-for-months business, but. It wasn't your idea, and she says you weren't a complete shit to her, so. I mean, it was traumatic enough for you, living in that house, wasn't it?"

Draco looked away, and didn't answer, but he supposed the look on his face would be enough. He hated the memories of that year, hated the way they made him shudder, the way his insides felt warm and sickly whenever they came up in his mind, which was often.

"Exactly," Potter smiled again, encouraging, proving Draco's theory correct. "Now c'mon, it's fucking freezing out here. You can, er, stay up by this nice tree, if you want. Or you can come back with me. You don't have to stay with _us_, as a group," Potter said hastily, as Draco felt panic rapidly rise up and recede in his throat again. "But you're probably better if you're with Susan or Parkinson – Pansy. Pansy or Blaise, they'll look after you better than I can. C'mon."

Potter pulled him to his feet then, but he stumbled, his legs feeling hollow, and he had to whip one hand back and brace it on Potter's shoulder to stop himself from keeling over.

"That'll happen," He told Draco, simply straightening up and adjusting his other hand in Draco's so that they were palm to flat palm, fingers squared off. "Just stick with me, you'll be fine."

Draco, to his immense annoyance, found that, deep down, he knew that was true. Sticking with Potter, it seemed, was the best course of action, at least for now, so he didn't even attempt to take his hand back, just straightened his shoulders and started walking.

* * *

><p><strong>AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. Hello. I'm sorry - AGAIN - for my hideous absence. Uni is upon me, as it always is - I've always envied those writers who write the whole thing in advance and update weekly, but sadly it seems I am not that kind of girl. In penance, however, I offer you our longest chapter yet! And is that the beginnings of <em>frisson <em>I see? (Sorry, I just love using that word...)**

**ANYWAY. Big big fank-yoos to all you readers out there, and especially Gingerchild and my darling Sophie swan-scones, who is having a terribly terribly rough time of it at the minute. But she's a tough little cookie, so this chapter is dedicated to her. I love you chuck!**

**Moving on, I really hope you all enjoy this chapter, so please let me know what you think!**

**All my love and kisses,**

_**Cherry **_


	9. Chapter 9

"What the _hell_ is that?"

Harry looked up from where he'd been contemplating the essay he'd gotten back – he, Hermione and Seamus had, unsurprisingly, gotten some of the best grades out of the ten of them on an essay about the virtues of the telephone and its benefits in communication. What had been a surprise, however, had been Malfoy letting out a pleased little hum and laughing softly to Zabini about how he'd only been two marks short of perfect. He'd done better than Harry had, annoyingly, but he supposed that came down to his writing style – Harry always felt as if he mashed up his words wrongly, even with Hermione's help. The smug look on Malfoy's face at having done well, however, was what really got him. After all that, Harry had been distracted, so he hadn't been paying attention, but now he was looking straight at what had caused Parkinson to start squawking so loudly.

"This, Pansy, is a television," Paxton said, oddly proud from where she'd just wheeled an ancient old television and video player into the room on a trolley, hands on her hips. "We're beginning a whole new segment on visuals today, won't that be fun?"

"It depends on your idea of what fun is, Professor," Parkinson replied mulishly. She was sitting on the desk, wearing black, sharply pressed _trousers _– Harry thought it was perhaps the first time he'd seen her out of a dress or a skirt, and that combined with her grey blouse under her house jumper made her look incredibly different, her dark hair swinging loose by her jaw. The temperatures had dropped rapidly, now that they were well and truly into the midst of a Yorkshire winter, and Parkinson wasn't the only one complaining about the frost on the windows and the lack of more than one fireplace. At least in Hogwarts, they were warm. What hadn't changed, however, was the vaguely mistrustful look the girl got on her face whenever they were looking at a real life Muggle artefact, but this time, she wasn't alone. Lavender was leaning into Seamus's side, brows knitted together as she observed the television sitting in front of them, and both Susan and Lisa were actually tilting themselves away, mouths twisted in identical confused pouts. Malfoy and Zabini, sitting close together, both had their heads cocked in the same direction, looking almost like puppies in the window of a pet shop. "So what does it do?"

"Well," Harry jerked in surprise when the voice came from his right, where Hermione was sitting between him and Ron, instead of the front of the class, but turned to watch her all the same. "It's like when you see a Wizarding photograph, sort of. It's moving images, but instead of constantly looping and showing the same thing, they keep on moving. And you get different types, sometimes you get ones that people have drawn and animated –"

"Cartoons!" Ron exclaimed, interrupting her, and Harry laughed. "Like He-Man, Harry showed me that one in the summer, it's brilliant. And – Sidney films?"

"Disney films, Ronald," Hermione said, a small, proud smile playing round her mouth. "Yes, like that. And sometimes it's real people doing things – actors."

"I know what _actors _are," Parkinson huffed, folding her arms. "I've been to the _theatre, _I'm not fucking stupid."

"I didn't say you were," Hermione said mildly, at the same time as Paxton choked out a scandalised "_Language_, Pansy!"

There was a moment of tense silence, where everyone looked at each other awkwardly, before Parkinson folded into herself a little bit, sullenly tucking her head down and rounding off her shoulders. Harry noticed, though he didn't mean to, that Malfoy had the tips of his fingers resting on the exposed skin of her inner wrist next to his hand, and he wondered again about their relationship, even though it meant absolutely nothing to him.

"Sorry. Thank you for explaining to me, Granger."

"You're welcome," Hermione said. Her calm, even tone hadn't changed, but Harry knew from the set of her face that she was surprised – and, he'd guess, probably pleased. It was true, he supposed, that it was rare for Parkinson to be showing _anyone _gratitude. "It wasn't very technical, but it's what I know."

"And that, class, is what you have your textbooks for!" Paxton said, clapping her hands together. "We're only just beginning this part of your classes, I don't want to bog you down with technical terminology just yet – that can wait. What I _really _wanted to do today was this."

She bent down and rummaged in the floral carpet bag at her feet, humming under her breath. When she straightened up, Paxton was clutching a VHS box, looking positively giddy. She held it out in front of her, like a proud mother. It reminded Harry rather of the introduction of the baby lion in one of the Disney tapes he'd managed to get out of a charity shop for him and Ron to watch on a boring afternoon, after they'd found a television and video player dumped outside Grimmauld Place. From what he could see, however, it wasn't a cartoon – the picture on the front was of a blond haired boy lying next to a fair-haired girl, both of them looking solemn and intent, eyes closed as they tilted towards each other as if to kiss. Harry vaguely remembered seeing posters for it in London a few years ago, but other than that, it held no meaning for him - his glasses were smeared, and he couldn't focus on the writing from this far, so that didn't help. Hermione, however, clearly felt otherwise.

"Oh my Goodness! Romeo and Juliet?"

"Shakespeare?"

Zabini had sat up at the back of the room. He'd been scratching at the desk with a quill, his head tipped forward, but now he was paying attention. Harry swallowed hard, looking front and centre. Ever since that night at the pub, Harry had… he didn't know the word. Noticed, perhaps. He'd noticed the way Zabini's shoulders filled his shirts, and the way his smile was by turns slow and sly as well as quick and sharp. He hadn't _wanted _to, and more than once Hermione or Ron had asked him what he was staring at. Even Malfoy – and for fuck's sake, it really couldn't get worse – had raised an eyebrow at him one afternoon when Zabini's shirt had ridden up as he launched himself to the floor for one of the kittens they'd been supposed to be Transfiguring from teapots, mouthing "And what are _you_ looking at?" Harry hadn't known. He still didn't know, and it made him anxious, so he focused on what Paxton was rambling on about now.

"… very happy to see that you've got an interest in something non-Wizarding, Blaise. You'll be happy to know then, that we're beginning our study of Muggle literature in January. I thought it would be a good idea to give you as much grounding in some of the things we're going to be looking at as possible, plus… well, you've all been so good recently, and you deserve a reward! We'll watch a little of the film today and discuss what you think of it afterwards, and I'll leave you the television set so you can watch the rest in your spare time. You never know, if you all work hard enough, I might bring you some more films!"

She was fiddling with the video player by now, rewinding and fast forwarding until the screen showed another television set, a woman's voice over giving an introduction in Shakespearian form. Hermione was right forward in her seat, chin propped in her hands, utterly absorbed. Ron, however, had started writing Harry a note, and it slid under Hermione's radar to come to rest by Harry's arm.

_Hermione reads this all the time. This is the one where everybody dies and nobody's happy, isn't it?_

_Yes, _Harry wrote back. _Just what we needed to make us laugh._

Despite everything, however, when he passed the note back, Harry did hear Ron give a quiet little snort. He looked around – Seamus had his arm wrapped discreetly around Lavender's waist, and it made him smile a little to know that at least the night at the pub hadn't been disconcerting for _everyone. _Lisa and Susan were murmuring softly to each other, eyes on the images flickering on the screen – pretty girls, cars and guns, nothing Harry would have expected of a William Shakespeare adaptation. Zabini was rapt, face serious and intent in the sudden dim as Professor Paxton closed the curtains. Parkinson wasn't paying any attention at all in favour of reading the back of the video case, Ron and Hermione were holding hands, and…

Malfoy was watching him. His eyes looked even more shadowed than usual, causing Harry to notice – and not for the first time – his resemblance to his aunt. His mouth, however, was pulled into a slightly mocking smile. What felt like only a second later, a folded paper bird landed on Harry's shoulder, fluttering its wings as he reached up and clasped his fingers carefully around it.

_Better start watching, Scarhead_, it read. _You'll never beat my grades if you're more bothered about us lot._

Harry didn't know if Malfoy was trying to make a joke, but today he wasn't in the mood to find it funny. He crumpled the note in his hand, ready to throw it back, but Paxton was walking back to the front now, and he realised that Malfoy was right. He turned grudgingly, sighing and folding his arms.

It didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

* * *

><p>After he'd watched the others eat dinner that night, Draco found Blaise curled up on his bed, his battered – and secret, he'd kept it tucked under his mattress at Hogwarts until sixth year – copy of <em>Romeo and Juliet <em>in his hands. He looked at peace, and he actually smiled when Draco walked in, rolling onto his back to hold the book over his face. There was silence for a minute, before Draco sighed.

"I think Potter fancies you," He said, throwing himself heavily down on his own bed and curling up on his side, tucking his elbows into his chest. "He keeps staring at you."

"I don't blame him, Draco, I'm a handsome fellow," Blaise said mildly, but when Draco didn't laugh, he frowned. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly. When you dropped one of Granger's wildly adventurous kittens the other day I definitely saw him staring at your arse."

"Bloody hell. I always thought he was as straight as the stick up McGonagall's backside."

"I think he still thinks he is," Draco said. "I know the look on his face."

"What, the _please-Morgana-Merlin-and-Mordred_-_let-me-be-hetero_ look? You wore it for a very long time in our Quidditch changing rooms, so you would know it, wouldn't you?"  
>"Blaise. Please don't." Draco mumbled. He hated when Blaise mocked him for how he'd struggled – just because <em>his <em>mother was fine with Blaise's flamboyant, throw everything to the wind and give everyone a good tonguing sexuality didn't mean that _everybody's_ parents were so forgiving. He still remembered the first time he'd ever kissed a boy – a cousin of Theo Knott's under the mistletoe at the end of the Christmas holidays in third year. He'd cried himself to sleep that night, claiming allergies to the food served when his mother asked why his eyes were so red the next morning. He was pretty sure he'd gotten at least four house elves fired, and he still hadn't been able to eat certain types of caviar in front of his father since.

"Draco, come on. You know I don't mean it. Why do you care who Potter fancies, anyway? Are you jealous?"

"_What_?" Draco hissed through his teeth, sitting up and clenching the edge of the mattress between his hands. "Are you fucking – did you get hit by Pansy too hard after you called her a whore the other week after she slept with Andrew Farley? Are you Confunded?"

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Blaise sang. "You know it's fine if you want in Potter's self-righteous maroon knickers, don't you? It'd get you somewhere after we leave, at least. You'd not be half as looked down on."

"Yeah, or I'd get him killed – oh, for fuck's sake, it doesn't matter anyway, because I'm not bloody _jealous_!"

"Ok," Blaise said easily, sitting up, although his face looked annoyed, now, and Draco winced. "Except for how you've wanted his attention since the day you saw him when you were standing on that stool in Madam Malkin's, how you've been jealous of everything he has, and how you would constantly strive way too fucking hard to either irritate him or make him look at you. You might not fucking fancy him, Draco, but if you try and tell me you weren't ever fascinated with him, _I'll _tell _you _that you're deluding yourself."

At that, Blaise stood up and slammed his book down on the thick eiderdown he'd transfigured his duvet into, storming out of the door and letting it clatter closed behind him. As soon as he was gone, Draco rolled back over so he was facing the wall at the end of the room – it had been blank, but it had a few of Draco's scribbled drawings stuck up, now, and a poster of the bass player in Blaise's favourite band _Triple Hecate_. Pansy hated it, because she said it made her itch to dress the girl in pastels. Blaise had a crush on her, though, and even Draco had always said she was beautiful, with one green eye visible from behind black hair the way she was currently sitting – sometimes she played her instrument, silently but with flair, or other times she would dance. He wanted to rip her down now, because he only knew one other person with that colouring. He _wasn't _jealous of Potter fancying Blaise, because _he_ didn'tfancy _Potter_. Blaise maybe had a small point with the rest of it, but it would have made more sense if he'd said it before. Recently, Draco had thought he was over his need for Potter to see him, to give him any sort of reaction for his words and actions – it hadn't been something he'd thought he'd wanted, which made this all the more irritating.

"PANSY, GET IN HERE!" He shouted at the top of his lungs. She wouldn't be far, he knew that – and, sure enough, a minute later she stuck her head around the door, a cigarette tucked behind her ear. She'd clearly been in the middle of taking her make-up off – her mouth was soft and pink, rather than pillarbox, and one eye was missing its liner. She smiled, though, scrubbing a hand across her nose.

"Yes, darling? What's got you looking so bothered?"

"If you didn't know me as well as you knew me," he started, turning over as she crossed the room and set herself down next to him, rolling her trouser leg up so she could scratch at her ankle. "Would you say I fancied Potter?"

"Er," Pansy said. He looked at her. She was wearing the face she often wore when he asked her to tell him something she felt was a lie. "I wouldn't say you _fancied_ him. Maybe that's a bit of a strong word. I'd say at one time you'd been a little bit… consumed by him? Or perhaps that's still too romantic. Obsessed, maybe."

"_Fuck._"

She patted his hip consolingly, then frowned.

"Draco… Have you been eating much? I know you like to be on the skinny side, but these hips of yours are giving me paper cuts, sweets."

"Of course I have," he said, pushing her hand away but lacing their fingers together on top of his blankets. He was lying, of course – he never wanted to eat, these days. It was a combination of his housemates, bar Weasley and Potter, more often than not burning their offerings, and the rolling nausea he'd developed every time he even thought about sitting down to a square meal. "You know me, food is among my favourite pastimes."

"That's a blatant lie and you know it." Pansy said, but she pushed him over and lay next to him. Her face was very close, and it looked strange half-done, but he loved it all the same. Ever since he'd spoken to Susan, he'd wished so much to be even the smallest part attracted to girls – he appreciated them for being pretty to look at, but he couldn't imagine kissing Pansy open-mouthed, or pulling her into the cradle of his hips, or going to bed with her. He had thought, when he was younger, that perhaps they were just too close, too much like siblings in their relationship, but then he couldn't imagine doing those things with any of the other girls in Slytherin, or Susan, or Lisa, who was petite and doll-like - even poor old Arcadia, sitting gloomy and gorgeous in the poster, could stay well away as far as he was concerned. She raised an eyebrow at him when he glanced over, pushing her hair back from her face and shaking it out over her shoulders, pulling a seductive pose with her hips pushed forward. He grimaced, looking back at Pansy just as she pushed up on one elbow. "Are you having a crisis, Draco? Do you need me to find you a cute little Yorkshire farmer to tumble in the hay with?"

"Don't you ever suggest it ever again," he warned. "Hay brings me out in hives."

Pansy laughed, dragging him up with her.

"Come on. We're going to all watch the rest of Romeo + Juliet downstairs tonight, it was Granger's idea. At least we'll all get to cram together and warm up a bit – and you know that boy who plays Romeo's a dish."

"I prefer his friend Mercutio," Draco said quietly. "Do I have to, Pansy? Blaise pissed me off, I'm not in the mood."

"Yes, you do have to," she said, shoving him out of the room and whispering a hasty '_nox' _to shut off the lights. "You keep shutting yourself away, Draco, don't think I haven't noticed. I'm worried about you, so spending some time with the others will help put _my _mind at rest, alright? At least if I can see you I don't have to worry about what you're doing sitting all alone in your room."

"Thinking!" He insisted. "I like to spend time alone and have space in my own _head_, Pans, for God's sake."

"You forget, Draco," she said, turning to face him as they stopped on the narrow landing outside Potter, Weasley and Finnigan's room. "That I know what it's like inside your head. It's somewhere nobody should see too much of, especially you."

_Stop saying these things_, he wanted to reply. _Stop knowing me so well, stop being so kind. I _hate _it when you're so tender_, but he didn't. Pansy's face was the most open he'd seen it, her eyes large in the darkness of the hallway, and he couldn't help but pull her close, kissing her cheeks and her eyebrows and nose and once, quickly, her mouth.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to make you worry. I'm fine. I just… things are strange, at the minute. I like to try and work out what I feel about that, it bothers me when I don't understand what's going on."

"I know," she said. He was still standing with his hands gently cradling her jaw, and she settled her hands on his wrists, soothing him with her cool, soothing touch. "But I think for a while you should just let yourself feel things the way they occur. I know you've felt bad recently, so _let_ yourself feel bad. Don't force yourself to feel better because chances are you'll just get yourself tangled up and in even more of a mess, Draco. You can't help how you feel."

"I…" Draco couldn't think of a reply to that. He thought that yes, she was probably right, he should take things as they came and deal with them that way. But it didn't help him when he was staying up late at night, worrying about the things he'd done and the things he hadn't. He had too much to think about, and if he didn't think about it, he felt it always there on the edges of his awareness, like the sensation of someone hovering behind your shoulder. "I'll try. Sorry, Pansy. I love you."

"I love you more, you fucking fool." She whispered, tipping her head forward and nudging her nose against his sternum. "Now come on. Granger tells us that this story is very sad and that the boys will only get more angst-fuelled and beautiful and it's all going to end in tears. It sounds like my kind of thing. Let's go, yes?"

"Yes," he said thickly, taking her hand and letting her lead him down the stairs.

* * *

><p>"Harry? What are you doing?"<p>

Harry jumped backwards from where he'd been standing just behind his slightly-open bedroom door, spinning to see Ron looking up from feeding Echo a treat, eyebrows furrowed. Even the bird looked intrigued as she ruffled her wings and climbed to perch on Ron's shoulders, where he stroked her feathers absent mindedly.

"I – nothing. I was just, er. Nothing."

"Right." Ron said. "If you get any twitchier, I'm going to go mad. What's up with you, mate?"

"_Nothing_." Harry said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Harry, for God's sake," Ron grumbled, shaking his head. "I've known you since we were eleven, I think I can tell when you're having one of your weird moments. Will you just sit down and tell me what's going on, please?"

Harry sighed, taking one hand out of his pocket to shove it roughly through his hair, sitting down on the end of Ron's bed.

"It's just… Do you ever wonder about all the sides to people you don't see? Like, you think somebody is one way, and that they're always going to be that way, and then you see a completely different side to them without even meaning to, and it messes your entire perception of them up?"

"Sort of," Ron said slowly. "Care to elaborate?"

"Like," Harry said, then sighed, frustrated. "I don't know. Like you think somebody's awful, yeah, and then they do something and you're kind of confused because most of you still thinks they're awful, but another part of you thinks there's a side to them that might be – nice. Or whatever."

"Oh, God," Ron said heavily, rolling his blue eyes skyward. "It's Malfoy again, isn't it?"

"No, actually, it was Parkinson – wait, what do you mean _again_?"

"You know what I mean." Ron laughed, raising an eyebrow. "It's always Malfoy with you. It's going to be sixth year all over again, I know it. Hermione called it ages ago. The minute he deviates from whatever shitty arsehole behaviour is the norm, you get fussier than my mum at a wedding and start obsessing over what's causing the changes."

"You and Hermione have been talking about me?!" Harry demanded indignantly. "What have you been saying?"

"Nothing, you great prat!" Ron was laughing louder now, Echo nipping at his ear before flying to perch on the top of her cage. "We've just been, well. Worried about you. You've gone all stalker again. I know we're moving past things, or trying to, but. You know. Unless you want to be Malfoy's best friend, which I assume you don't, I don't get why you're all over him like a kneazle on milk. And don't even get me _started_ on how often I catch you staring at Zabini."

"He looks shifty."

"Not as shifty as you, with the questioning eyebrows." Ron said, shoving Harry's shoulder gently. "Come on. 'Mione's insisting we all show good spirit or whatever it was she said, she's got the tv and video set up downstairs. The woman is a miracle with those wire things. And pugs."

Harry smiled and gave a little snort, feeling a little bit looser. He might be in denial that he was finding a boy nice to look at – not attractive, Harry couldn't even _admit _to himself that he'd thought that word - and he might be spinning from the realisation that Pansy Parkinson seemed to have a shred of a soul underneath that hard, sharp exterior, but Ron Weasley was still extolling the virtues of Hermione Granger and getting Muggle words wrong, and that was always a comfort.

"It's plugs, Ron. A pug is a dog."

"Or Pansy's nose."

"So you _do _know what a pug is."

"Of course I do. But it made you laugh, didn't it?"

Harry laughed again instead of giving an answer, and that seemed good enough.

* * *

><p>When they got into the living room, there was barely a spare seat. Malfoy and Parkinson had curled up together in one armchair, arms and legs tangled together as they muttered together. Susan and Lavender had lain down together on the rug, and Lisa and Hermione were sitting next to each other on the couch while Seamus splayed himself over the other chair, facing the television which had, for now, been wheeled in front of the piano.<p>

"Finally," Hermione laughed, looking at them both from over the rim of her cup of tea. "Ron, come and sit here next to me. I thought Echo had gobbled you up."

"You just want somebody to cry on," Ron joked as he flopped down onto the couch, leaving Harry with no choice but to take the piece of floor next to Malfoy and Parkinson's armchair.

"Hey, where's Zabini?" he asked, suddenly noticing the absence of one of their number. Malfoy turned to him, raising one elegant, pale eyebrow as he stroked his palm over Parkinson's shoulder. She didn't even seem to notice as she watched Hermione jab her wand repeatedly at the telly, trying to get the video to set back to the exact point they'd left it at that afternoon before Lisa had tried to work out what 'fast forward' meant.

"He stropped off. I think he said he was going to the pub or something. Why are you concerned?"

"Just. It's dark."

"And he's a big, _strapping_ lad, Potter," Malfoy said, lips quirking into a sarcastic smile as Harry swallowed hard at his emphasis. "I'm sure you know that. He'll manage."

Harry would have retorted but, for the second time that day, he was interrupted – this time by the television roaring into life with a blast of Young Hearts, Run Free. He turned to look, watching the colours from the screen flickering over everybody's faces. Most looked content at the least or enraptured by the glitz at best, but Harry knew he wasn't going to be able to focus as hard as everybody else. It was nice, though, just sitting in the quiet, warm dim of the living room, watching young love unfold on screen. The film was, it was true, absolutely stunning to look at. And it didn't hurt that not a person on the cast was unattractive, either.

"Hey, Draco," Susan laughed, pushing herself up on one elbow. "You look a bit like Romeo now you've started wearing your hair down."

"Bugger off," Malfoy sighed, but Parkinson wriggled around in his arms until she could see the screen better.

"No, she's right! You're paler, though. But otherwise it's a little bit like somebody squished your face up and gave it to him. And pushed his nose in a bit, because, you know. Pointy."

"I am _not _pointy!"

"You're practically triangular," Parkinson drawled. "All sharp bits. You could slice a cake with your chin."

"Bitch," Malfoy muttered. "You're just jealous of my nose."

"Button noses are cute!"

"Pug noses aren't, though, I'm afraid." Ron said mildly, and he was biting his lip to stop from smiling when Harry looked around. Parkinson pushed herself up to sitting fully, looking scandalised.

"Did you just -"

"Yep." Ron said, utterly unconcerned. "Never be ashamed of having a dodgy nose, Parkinson. Gives you character."

"Well thanks for the advice, you, you... _Ginger snap_!" She said, before flouncing around in Malfoy's arms again, kicking up her heels and pouting.

A second or two passed, and then everybody burst out laughing. Parkinson, clearly refusing to take such mockery, gave them all the middle finger from both hands before storming out, muttering under her breath about mutiny as she threw Malfoy a dirty look. He was laughing too – not as hard as the others, but hard enough that his eyes had crinkled up and he'd rolled over onto his side, hands folded together up by his chest. He was _smiling_, and Harry felt his stomach plummet as he realised how welcome that sight was, and how – for lack of a better word - pretty. Again? Really? He'd only just gotten over thinking Zabini was – God forbid – an alright looking sort of boy. And now he was calling Draco bloody Malfoy _pretty_? Even in the confines of his own head, Harry felt that this was a step too far.

"Bloody hell," Seamus wheezed, wiping under his eyes. "Ginger snap, what the fuck?"

"Pansy is not, contrary to popular belief, very good at insults. She needs a good while to think them all up and then keeps them in stock. I'd say Weasley took her by surprise, a little bit." Malfoy said, struggling up to a sitting position. Without Parkinson in the chair with him, he looked almost too small for it, the overstuffed floral framing his narrow shoulders and making him look almost childlike. It was a sight which made Harry ache with some strange feeling that, while it wasn't sympathy, was almost protective. God, what was _wrong_ with him today?

"Yes, he did," Pansy said suddenly, from the other side of the room – she had appeared in the door to the yard, wearing a set of dragon hide gloves and clutching a handful of what seemed to be snow. "But the weather's on my side, and I can get him back!"

"Don't you dare!" Ron yelped, but it was too late – before he could even get up from the couch, Parkinson had managed to shove the entire handful down the back of his jumper. He yelled, leaping up and dislodging Hermione's cup so that her tea spilled all over her. _She _yelled, too, and everybody else was too busy roaring with laughter – again – to do anything about it.

"Right!" Ron shouted, red in the face, but he was smiling, not frowning. "That's it, everybody up!"

"_What_?" Hermione demanded, mopping at her face with a tissue Lisa had handed her while using her wand to dry off her jumper and jeans. "What on Earth are you talking about, Ronald?"

"I'm talking about the fact I know have snow down the entire length of my back, courtesy of Parkinson, there. I want a rematch – Fred and – Well, George still does it, probably, but – they had some nifty tricks." Ron said awkwardly. Harry thought perhaps he hadn't realised what he was saying, and then had remembered Fred. He caught Malfoy's eye entirely by accident, and the other boy winced, seemingly involuntarily. Well, at least he was showing some guilt about it, and hadn't piped up with something horrible to say.

"And your point with this _is_?" Hermione grumbled, though she seemed a little bit less bad tempered now she was dried off.

"My _point_," Ron said, taking a deep breath, "Is that I have some tricks up my sleeve that could win us a snowball fight! Everyone? What do you say?"

"I'm game! Bet you can't beat _my _aim, though, wand or not." Seamus said. Lavender nodded, already getting up to fetch her coat and throwing Seamus his zip up sports jacket and his woolen hat, which somebody – Harry presumed Lavender, because they had had an argument that day – had charmed a musical knitted shamrock to. It sang Danny Boy if you pressed it, but Seamus had in fact found it terribly amusing and was keeping it for as long as it lasted.

"You're on. And Parkinson?"

"Yes?" She replied sweetly, though her tone contrasted with her wicked grin and her folded arms.

"Don't think I'm going to go easy on you because you're small. You're dead meat."

"We'll see," Parkinson laughed, pulling on her coat and putting up her fur-lined hood. Susan came up and linked their arms, hauling them both out of the door, and soon only Harry and Malfoy were left, the others talking raucously over each other as they divided into teams. Through the window, Harry could see Hermione trying to marshal everybody, hands on hips, and he smiled, before looking over at Malfoy, still sitting in the chair.

"Don't you want to go play?" Harry said, then cringed at how molly-coddling he'd sounded. Malfoy simply shook his head, though.

"No," he said quietly. "I'll probably watch from in here, though. I'm just not one for the cold. I hate the snow."

"Well, that's a lie, and you know it," Harry laughed, folding his arms. "You were always marching around in the snow at school like a right prat, with that big stupid hat on."

"It was an ushanka, thank you." Malfoy announced primly. "Anyway, aren't _you _going to _play_?"

"I – yeah," Harry sighed, before crossing the room. "I just want to know why you don't want to. And why you _really _don't want to. Nobody who spent nearly seven years of schooling in a subterranean dormitory hates the cold."

"Subterranean. Big word for you." Malfoy half-sneered, and Harry frowned, sitting down on the arm of the couch closest to him, folding his arms over. Malfoy drew back a little, hunching his shoulders, and Harry couldn't help but let a little noise of annoyance out.

"Don't – don't fucking do that. Don't pull yourself away, Malfoy. Can you just, for once in your life, be fucking _honest_ with somebody when they ask you a question? And not just -"

"I'm scared, alright?!" Malfoy half-shouted suddenly, and then covered his mouth with both hands, like a small child who has completely by accident landed somebody else in very big trouble.

"What? What the fuck are you scared of? Getting hit too hard with a snowball?"

"Ffnmffng." Malfoy still had his hands over his mouth, and he rolled his eyes at himself before taking them away and picking at the left sleeve of his jumper with his right hand. "I'm scared of. Of not fitting in, I suppose. I don't want to go _play _with the other children in case they're all just pretending, you know, that they can deal with me being with them. I'd rather be on my own than have people lie to me."

"Well, I don't doubt some of us are pretending to want you around." Harry said, shrugging. "You were a shit. To all of us. You still are, most of the time. You're rude, and I can't tell if you're still a racist prick or if you've just given up on that and decided you don't like most of us anyway, blood status or not. But sometimes you have to pretend, Malfoy. Sometimes pretending things are ok is all you've got, because to act like they are is easier than the shit you have to struggle through if you don't. Don't hold it over their heads."

"And you? Do you pretend?" Malfoy asked, suddenly standing up. He was taller than Harry sitting down, and he looked angry, now. Harry felt intimidated, suddenly, and he had gotten used to _not _feeling that way around Malfoy, so he reached out a hand quickly, brushing his fingers against the back of the other boys wrist and then wrapping them around it. It was very thin, and the bones jerked in his grip, but he didn't let go.

"No. I don't pretend. I don't – I don't necessarily _like _you, yet. But I'm tired, Malfoy. I'm tired of having to hate people, I'm tired of having fought a war and feeling like things aren't going to change, or that if they do it won't be enough. I'd like it if, I dunno, if I could understand you. I don't want to be your best friend, or anything, I just want... To move on."

Malfoy didn't say anything, but he seemed to relax, his shoulders rounding off a little and his mouth turning back up from its frown.

"I'm not some sort of experiment, you know," he said, but he said it mildly. "You can't use me as some sort of leg-up to see if us Slytherins, us ex-Death Eaters, can be decent human beings."

"I didn't say that," Harry said. "I said I wanted to understand _you_. As a person. I'd like to think I've grown up enough to realise that with certain people, those things aren't always the whole. I – I don't think they are. With you."

Malfoy looked surprised, now. He turned his wrist a little this way and that in Harry's grip, but he wasn't trying to pull away, just – testing, Harry thought. Working out why it was more comfortable than it should be. Harry was wondering exactly the same thing.

"You're such a sentimental idiot, Potter," Malfoy eventually sighed. It sounded bizarrely fond. "What, you decide you want to _understand me _and you want to hold my hand?"

"Got a problem with that?" Harry challenged. "I'll have you know I have no problems holding hands with anybody. I'm very comfortable that way."

"I'm glad you clarified that, actually. Might have thought you fancied me."

Harry half-choked, instantly letting go of Malfoy's wrist and flailing backwards, so he was on his back on the couch. Malfoy just smirked, shaking his head.

"Honestly, Potter. I'm perfectly aware it's Blaise you really like."

"_What_?" Harry yelped, struggling up. "What – no, I don't, I -"

"Yes, you do," Malfoy sighed, pushing his floppy hair away from his face. "I mean, you probably don't think you do. That's fine. But you're checking him out a bit much to just have a platonic interest."

"No, I mean," Harry said, sitting up on his knees now in his haste to explain. "I don't – I don't _fancy _him. I just. It's hard to explain."

"You just realised that he's actually quite fit, for a boy, and now you're confused and maudlin about it. I get it."

"How did you...?"

"Know? Please." Malfoy snorted, stretching and making his way over to the door to the classroom, presumably to cut through and head upstairs for the night. "Just because you're all cut up about understanding _me _doesn't mean I don't know how to understand _you. _Goodnight, Potter."

He grinned once, sharp and bright and not, in fact, very happy, before disappearing out of the room. Harry let out a slow breath, shutting his eyes. He couldn't _ believe – _well, no. Actually, he could. Malfoy always had a knack for seeking out the things that had made him most uncomfortable and picking at it. He didn't feel as if it had been done out of cruelty now, for a change – the tone change in Malfoy's voice had been subtle, but it seemed to be more gently mocking than deliberately harmful. Even that, though – trying to work out how Malfoy meant what he said – was making his head hurt.

"Harry?"

Hermione was popping her head around the door, already damp with snow, her nose red. She smiled, though there was a worried set to her eyebrows.

"Are you alright? We're a man down on our team, because Ron saved you a space as his second-in-command and Seamus and Lisa are in a scrap about appropriate snowball size. Are you going to come join in?"

"Yeah, sorry," Harry mumbled. "I'll just grab my jacket."

Hermione waited just inside the door for him, arms crossed and shuffling from foot to foot.

"I wish I could bring a portable flame, but it'd just get kicked over," she said, taking his hand as they went outside. None of the others were there, though he could hear yelling from over the wall – what sounded like 'well why don't you shove the snowball up your _arse _and _then _we'll see if it's big enough to hurt!', but Harry couldn't be sure. Lisa seemed altogether too mild for that sort of language.

"Hey," Hermione continued, shaking his arm a little. "Isn't Malfoy coming?"

"No," Harry said, surprised. "Why, do you _want _him to?"

"No, I suppose not." Hermione laughed, shaking her head at herself. "I just. He always does that. Shuts himself away or puts himself on the edge whenever we do things together. It's strange. You'd think he'd be right in trying to mock people, or something."

"Yeah," Harry said, looking back over his shoulder at the house as they cut out of the yard door and marched up the hill towards where Ron had just shoved Parkinson face first into a snow drift. Malfoy was standing at the window, watching them walk away, although he ducked out of sight as soon as he realised Harry had noticed him. "I don't know. I think he – wasn't really feeling up to it."

"Oh well. He doesn't look like he'd have a very good throwing charm, however well he throws his insults."

"Suppose not," Harry said, and then he had to duck as Susan aimed a snowball at his face, and the only thing left of the conversation was a weird sensation up and down his spine that had been there since he'd noticed Malfoy at the window, and an unfamiliar warmth in his gut.

* * *

><p>Draco, meanwhile, was pacing his bedroom, chewing his fingernails. His father had said it was a disgusting habit, but he couldn't bring himself to stop at the minute. His conversation with Potter had left him feeling all churned up and awkward – and the worst thing was he couldn't understand <em>why. <em>He'd known all the things that he'd said, about the others, deep down, but – he didn't really get why the idea of Potter trying to get close to him was leaving him so strung out and on edge.

"_Fuck._" He breathed, leaning his forehead against the back of his bedroom door, the wood cool and smooth beneath his skin. Maybe it was that he was jealous that Potter seemed to find Blaise interesting, too. Maybe Blaise was right. He thought back to how it had felt when Potter had turned round and caught his eye as he walked from the yard – as if he'd been struck with a shock spell, weird pulses under his skin. He and Potter had always had a connection – hatred at first, and now it was unusual, trying to find where it lay. He realised, as he thought, that he didn't want Potter to get distracted by Blaise and stop wanting to understand Draco, stop grabbing his wrist and helping him out when he had panic attacks and blinking at him, oddly endearingly, from behind his glasses as he struggled to get to grips with whatever nonsense Draco had just spewed out of his mouth. He gave up pacing and slumped onto the end of his bed, blinking hard.

"Shit," he said aloud. "Fucking shit."

That was, he thought, about the only way he could summarise the situation. He didn't want to think about it anymore, so he crawled up and wriggled under the covers, still in his clothes.

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello. So, ok, first things first: I realise it has been months upon months - I don't even want to look at how many, ugh, God - since I've updated. I am SO SO sorry to all the readers. I was swithering, for a while, because of how busy I was, how much I had going on with trying my best in a university resit year (which I passed!) and trying to look after myself a bit better, whether I should put this under hiatus or, in fact, stop it entirely. I decided not to, and over the last few months, I've worked at this in dribs and drabs to get a version I was happy with. This one. I'm committing myself now to actually getting this thing done sometime before the end of the next millenia. Apologies, again, to those poor few who have been waiting!<strong>

**Thanks to those who've been favouriting and reviewing, though (especially ANGEL SOPHIE, without whose encouragement this story really, really would not exist and I am deadly serious), because your continued support and encouragement is part of what helped me decide to keep the story alive. So. Enjoy, I guess!**

**_Cherry xoxo_  
><strong>


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